Falling
by Joy Cutting
Summary: In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she meets the one person she least expected,  the one person she seeks to destroy,  the one man she will ultimately learn to love. AU after Half-Blood Prince. HGTR
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** Although in my dreams I own everything, in reality, I own nothing. It all belongs to J.K. sniff

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note:** After reading Lady Moonglow's "Have You Ever," I fell in love with Hermione/Tom and decided to jump on the ship. I know this plot has been done over and over and people are probably getting sick of it, but I felt compelled to dabble in it non-the-less. Now, unlike my other stories (mainly the ones I never finished blush) I actually sat down and mapped out every chapter of this story, so I know exactly where it's going, and I have no excuse not to finish it. If everything goes according to plan, there will be 19 chapters, as well as a prologue and epilogue (21 chapters in all). Then again, we all know things never go as you want them, so it may be a bumpy ride yet. All right, I am finished babbling. Now on with the story!

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**_Prologue _**

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"Protego!" she shouted as another spell flew her way. It bounced harmlessly off her shield, giving Hermione enough time to return fire, disarming her masked opponent. With a quick binding charm, she left the fallen Death Eater to the mercy of the approaching Aurors and moved on.

A spell hit her from behind, driving her to her knees. Her shield had absorbed most of it, but the spell was powerful enough to break through and send her to the ground. Hermione scrambled to her feet, shooting off a string of hexes at her new opponent. She wasn't positive, but she was pretty sure that she was dueling one of the Lestranges. She could recognize their distinctive odor from a mile away.

"Sectumsempra!" Hermione bellowed. Her aim was off, but it managed to leave a gaping gash in the Death Eater's arm. The high pitch scream that followed confirmed her suspicions, and as Bellatrix whipped off the grotesque skull mask, Hermione wasn't surprised to note that her actual face was far more frightening. "Merlin, woman, do you _ever_ bathe?"

"You pathetic mudblood!" Bellatrix screeched in indignation, shooting curse after curse at Hermione, who barely managed to deflect them all and return a few of her own. "You think you can best me? You will die first!" Hermione barely avoided the following Cruciatus, countering with one of her own. It fizzled at the end of her wand, and she realized that despite all the hurt and all the pain that Bellatrix had caused for her and her friends, she didn't have the capacity to carry out such a malevolent curse. The unhinged woman cackled at Hermione's attempt, and this time her aim hit true.

The pain was unbearable. It felt like there were a hundred knives ripping at her flesh, digging and scraping until they reached the very core of her. She held the scream in as long as she could, and that was probably what saved her in the end. Bellatrix lifted the curse just as she felt the scream bubbling on her lips.

"You think you're so strong?" It was more of a taunt than a question, and it was this penchant for verbal torture that would prove to be the downfall of Bellatrix Lestrange. As she cackled on, Hermione reached into her black leather boot and withdrew the wickedly gleaming dagger that she had picked up during their hunt for Voldemort's Horcruxes. The blade was tipped with poison, fast acting and fatal. One scratch could condemn a man to death. Before she could lose her nerve, Hermione flung the dagger with all she had and watched as it sliced through the foggy night air, piercing Bellatrix's jugular. The words on the crazed woman's lips died instantly, and the insane fire in her eyes went out like a light. She seemed to crumple in a heap, and like that, her days of terror were over.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, and in that breath of a moment, everything seemed to stop. The reality of the situation struck her with the force of an anvil, and she was horrified at the sight that met her tired eyes. There were bodies everywhere, carnage and chaos littering the ground of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. All around her the war raged on, neither side winning or losing, though both were dealt devastating blows. In the distance she could see that Kingsley Shacklebot had been torn in two by one of the giants, his upper half laying a few feet away from his lower. She shuddered, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, and averted her gaze. The next body her gaze fell upon gave her a thrill of triumph, for somebody had finally bested Lucius Malfoy. His golden hair lay like a hallow around his death paled face, and by the shocked look still marring his once aristocratic features, whoever had performed the killing curse had been the last person he expected. She looked up and saw Draco, his son, standing over his father's body, a mixture of hatred, love, anger and remorse playing across his features.

"It had to be done, Draco," she called out softly, barely audible above the cacophony of war. His stormy gray eyes locked with hers, looking for reassurance. He must have seen it, for he nodded curtly and left his father, engaging McNair in battle.

"Hermione! Watch out!" a voice bellowed behind her. She dropped to the ground in time to see a streak of bright green light whiz by, hitting McNair in the back. The gangly Death Eater fell to the ground, to the surprise of Draco who was about to bellow his own killing curse. A shout of fury followed, and looking over her shoulder, she watched as Snape spun on his heel and flung his wand out at Ron, who had issued the warning.

"AVADA KADAVRA!" It became surreal, then. Too slow to move, to react, Hermione lay in the mud and watched as her best friend was hit square in the chest with the killing curse.

"RON! NO!" she yelled, struggling to her feet, the mud like a thousand hands pulling her back down. Snape turned his wand on her again, a malicious smirk spread across his sallow face.

"You filthy, little, know-it-all mudblood," he sneered; skillfully blocking the curse she hurled his way. Yawning, he flung a few her way, which she barely managed to duck. Hermione knew she was outmatched. Snape was an expert dueler and well skilled in the Dark Arts. She could only hope to block his attacks until someone came to her aid. She remembered seeing Draco slink away the moment Ron was struck, and now, like a prayer answered, she watched as he crept up behind the turncoat, a look of quiet fury on his face.

"I wouldn't try that if I were you, Mr. Malfoy," Snape hissed, turning slightly so that he could see both Hermione and Draco. The youngest Malfoy began his volley of curses with everything to the Bat-Bogey hex to the Cruciatus curse. He was angry and he was powerful, and Snape suddenly had to turn his back on Hermione to dodge and block all of Draco's attacks. It was all the distraction she needed. With a desperation borne of fear, she scrambled in her robes for the golden chain that hung around her neck.

_'If I could just go back a few hours, to before this all began, I could warn Harry or McGonagall or somebody! Maybe it's all the leverage we need to win this war,' _she thought frantically, fumbling with the hourglass attached to the chain, silently thanking Dumbledore for bequeathing the item to her care in his will. It was the last of it's kind, all the others having been destroyed at the end of her fifth year in the fight for the Prophecy.

"Oh no you don't!" Snape's vile voice suddenly sounded and, looking up, Hermione saw yet another of her friend's had fallen to this man's wand. With a look of fury on her face, she yanked the hourglass to one side. She wasn't quick enough, however, for at the exact moment she flicked her wrist in the first turn, a flash of green light streaked toward her, hitting the time turner. She was flung backwards with the impact, her body moving through the air as if in slow motion.

Blackness suddenly enveloped her and at first Hermione thought she had passed out. But the distinctive feeling of falling assured her that she was very much awake, if not alive.

_'Is this what it's like to die? To fall through an endless abyss, never to hit the bottom or see the light of day again? Is this heaven or is this hell, or am I in limbo – a lost soul on a never-ending voyage through the darkness?' _The thoughts ran frantically through her mind as she fell, and tilting her head up, she could see the sparkle of golden sand as it leaked out of the broken hourglass, suspended in the darkness, the only illumination around.

It felt like she fell for an eternity, and just as Hermione was resigning herself to her fate, light blinded her and ground rushed up beneath her. With a squeal of surprise, Hermione shot out her wand and bellowed a slowing spell to lessen the impact of her fall. She hit the damp grass with a soft thud, rolling down the small hill until she came to a stop, staring at the orange sky.

The wind knocked out of her with the impact, and as she fought to regain her breath, she turned her gaze to the horizon. There, gleaming in the distance like a beacon of hope was Hogwarts, it's many turrets and towers back lighted by the glorious sunset. The whole visage was gleaming, a stark contrast to the ruin it had been only a moment ago.

There was something different about this Hogwarts that told her she'd traveled farther than she'd intended. Where there had once been a vast tower, recently added to house refugees of the wizarding world, there was only sky. Hermione pondered briefly weather she had been flung forward in time, rather than back. If so, had they won the war? The atmosphere seemed far too peaceful for the tyranny she knew Voldemort would reign down upon the world.

She shook her head to clear the thoughts and slowly, achingly climbed to her feet. It would be unwise to rush into the castle without knowing exactly _when _she was. Even if there was someone there to help her, blindly running in could prove to be fatal. With a weary sigh, she turned her gaze away from the castle. Stumbling, tired and in far more pain than she'd realized, she slowly made her way to the small village in the distance. Maybe she could find something out in Hogsmeade.

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**AN:** And there you have the prologue. It is shorter than the actual chapters will be, but it set up the premise and gives you an idea of what happened. I do hope you enjoyed it and would like to read more. Please review and let me know what you think. Comments, constructive criticism, and suggestions are always appreciated. Flames will be thrown in the bonfire to roast my marshmallows. 


	2. Chapter One

**Disclaimer:** Now, I could admit to owning everything, but then JK's sharks would jump all over me and they'd wring me out in court faster than I could say 'Protego!', so I'm just going to sit back and dabble in her world and dream that some day, I could be the owner of something as great as Harry Potter.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **It came to my attention that I completely forgot to write the section of Harry battling Voldemort, even though I did have it planned out. Thank you to those few who pointed that out. You'll be getting an answer to that question in this chapter. I've also discovered that when researching the 1940's (1943 to be specific), the movie 'A League of their Own' is amazing. I owe a great thanks to that movie for this story. It gave me ideas that I hadn't before pondered, nor have I seen in any other Tom/Hermione fic. A quick thank you to my lovely reviewers. Your continued support encourages me to keep writing.

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_**Chapter One**_

The view was breathtaking as she crested the hill overlooking the small village of Hogsmeade. It wasn't anything spectacular in retrospect – just a few buildings, some pristine, some in shambles, with colorfully dressed patrons running to and fro. Perhaps what made it so breathtaking was the absence of Death Eaters torturing and destroying the people that called this place home. Last she'd seen the Three Broomsticks, it had been a pile of rubble, smoking ash and cinder atop a crowd enjoying their evening meal. The night sky had been alight with the Dark Mark, highlighting the village in an eerie emerald glow. The attack had been swift and deadly, no one was spared. The Mark in the distance was the only thing that alerted the occupants of Hogwarts, and it hadn't been enough of a warning to make a difference. They were too later for the people of Hogsmeade.

Now, as she glanced around, everything was as she remembered it before that fateful day. Well, almost, she mused with a crinkled brow. The Three Broomsticks was there, the same as always, as was Honeydukes. Zonko's, however, was a thing of the past – or future – and in its place was a bakery that had a display of biscuits and crèmes that had her mouth watering. Those weren't the only changes she noticed as she descended the hill and stepped on the well-worn path leading to the main street of Hogsmeade. Her war-addled brain, however, refused to work enough to piece together this new puzzle presented to her. A few times, Hermione had to stop and lean against something to keep from passing out from pure exhaustion.

An eternity later, or at least it seemed that way to Hermione, she stumbled in to the Three Broomsticks, looking around but not really taking in anything. One stark contrast to her usual experiences was that in the place of the cheerful Madam Rosmerta was an older man, thin as a rail with a shock of white hair standing out against his tanned skin. He was wearing a white tee shirt and tan slacks worn high on his waist, tied about his thin frame with a black belt and held up with slightly sagging black suspenders. He looked up from the mug he was wiping down when she entered, his mouth falling open at her bedraggled appearance.

"Oh my!" he hurried over as she stumbled in to a table, knocking over the salt and pepper shakers placed on top. "You look a right sight, I dare say!" he added, helping Hermione stand. "What in Merlin's name happened to you, missy?" His voice was tobacco rough, reminding Hermione of her grandfather, who'd smoked for years, but thick with a Scottish brogue. When she said nothing, he put a hand on her shoulder. She automatically flinched away, earning a soft frown from the elderly barman. "Miss?" he intoned softly.

"It's nothing, really," she whispered, not entirely sure what to do or say. If she said the wrong thing, it could spell disaster. She felt more tired than she could have ever imagined feeling. "Just tripped and fell," she muttered, though she could tell by the skeptical look on his face that he didn't buy her story for one minute. "Long journey, so tired," she whispered, ignoring his look as she rested her head in her hands.

"Come on, let's get you up to bed," he said, helping her stand. Hermione protested weakly, but they went unheard. "On the house, dear," he muttered in reassurance. Sighing softly, she nodded and followed him up the stairs to the second floor. There were a number of rooms for rent, and it was to one of these that he led her. She trudged over to the bed and collapsed on top, heaving a heavy sigh. "I'll send up a meal in a bit," he murmured, shuffling back toward the door.

"Thank you," she whispered as he started to close the door. He smiled softly, nodded once, and left her to rest. Hermione stared at the ceiling of her room, restless despite her extreme exhaustion. The events of the past few hours left her feeling drained, physically and mentally. And now she was away from it all, stuck in a time that most definitely wasn't her own, unsure of how far back or forward she'd traveled.

Shifting on the bed, she curled in to a ball atop the covers, pulling he mud caked battle robes around her body and staring out the window as the sun finally set, the sky turning purple with dusk. She stared out that window for ages, unseeing, unfeeling, uncaring, the motion of the trees swaying in the breeze finally lulling her in to a fitful sleep.

_"Harry! I think we've found it!" Hermione exclaimed softly, eyeing the long piece of ebony wood with a mixture of awe and fear. "The last hallow. Ravenclaw's wand," she whispered, reaching out reverently, her hand unsteady as it inched closer to the relic that was gleaming in the pale moonlight._

_"Don't touch it!" Harry hissed in warning, snatching her hand back. Hermione shook her head, the fog slowly lifting. She wondered briefly if that was an effect of one of many curses Voldemort had put on the object to protect it from his enemies. _

_"The chalice, the sword, the pentacle, the spear… It's just like the Grail legends," she added as she snapped out of her daze. Ron looked at her like she had three heads, which she ignored. "Hufflepuff's cup was the chalice, and Gryffindor's sword, obviously, though I'm still baffled as to how we overlooked that just because it had always appeared to remain on Hogwarts grounds. To think, we were __**protecting**__ a bit of You-Know…yes, yes Harry, sorry, __Voldemort's__ soul all along," she muttered, watching as Harry pulled out his own wand and checked for traps. "As I was saying, Slytherin's locket was obviously the pentacle, and now Ravenclaw's wand is the spear. Earth, air, fire, water. It is so blatantly pagan… why didn't I think of it before?" _

_"I don't have the faintest idea what in the bloody hell you're talking about, Hermione," Ron muttered, rolling his eyes before turning back to keep watch on the entrance to the decrepit orphanage. _

_"No, I suspect you wouldn't," she blithely replied, pulling out her own wand to aid Harry. She quickly discovered a series of woven curses similar to the ones found on Gryffindor's sword, and, with the help of Harry, slowly and tedious unraveled the web, disabling them as they went. "It seems such a shame to destroy such an amazing piece of history," she sighed wistfully._

_"You said that about the cup, the sword, __**and**__ the locket, even though Sirius' brother had already destroyed the Horcrux," Ron pointed out from his position by the door. "It had to be done, Hermione."_

_"I know that," she snapped, huffing in indignation. She turned away from her work to glare at the smirking redhead. "Wipe that smirk off your face, Ronald Weasley. You're starting to look like Draco." _

_"I do not look like a ferret!" he sulked, folding his arms over his chest and glaring at his female friend. Hermione snorted._

_"No, you look like a weasel," she muttered, smiling at Harry's amused snort. _

_"I heard that!"_

_"Guys, can we finish what we came here to do? I've got a bad feeling that we're about to have company…" Harry spoke suddenly, flinching, his hand flying to the lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead. As he said it, Ron's wand shot out, a shield charming issuing from the end. _

_"Death Eaters! About six of them!" he shouted over his shoulder, shooting off an array of hexes. Hermione rushed to his side as Harry glared intently at the wand before him. _

Hermione bolted up in bed, her frizzy hair clinging to her sweat-dampened forehead as the last vestiges of the dream trickled away, like water down a drain. She let out a heavy sigh she didn't realize she'd been holding, brushing the hair out of her face as he looked around the darkened room.

She remembered that day as if it were yesterday. Harry had nearly been killed destroying the last of Voldemort's Horcruxes, and had spent nearly a month in recovery afterward. They'd barely escaped the Death Eaters that time, and Ron had permanently lost the use of his left arm after that encounter.

"It's over, Hermione," she muttered to herself, shaking her head free of the memory. Slowly swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she looked at the nightstand table, for the first time noticing the tray of food placed there. She didn't think she was hungry until she saw the plate of beef Wellington and mashed potatoes. Suddenly, she felt ravenous, and, picking up the tray, proceeded to devour the meal.

When she was finished, she set the tray on the table again and wasn't surprised when it suddenly vanished. Standing, she stretched and made her way over to a door in the far wall. Opening it, she was delighted to find a bathroom, complete with a claw-foot tub. She turned on the faucet, watching steam rise as water filled the basin. Quickly, she shed out of her dirty clothes, leaving a heap in the middle of the room that also disappeared the minute she stepped away. With the sound of water rushing in the background, Hermione stared at her reflection in the steam-fogged mirror. She wiped a hand over it until the image was no longer distorted, and frowned. A large gash spread the length of her torso, from the v of her breasts to her belly button. It was raised, an angry pink with splotches of dried blood here and there. She had received it in a duel with Snape the day they had obliterated Nagini. He had used Sectumsempra on her, and she had nearly died from blood loss. If it hadn't been for Draco…

Hermione averted her gaze, disgusted with her appearance. Shutting off the faucet, she slowly climbed in to the tub, wincing as the scalding water burned her raw skin. It took a few minutes for her to sink down until she was sitting, only her head above the water's surface. She lay unmoving for a while, letting the hot water relax her tense and sore muscles, before finally reaching for a sponge and a bottle of soap. She washed slowly, gently scrubbing away the dirt, blood and grime, examining every bruise and cut with a frown. After an eternity, she ducked under the water, wetting her curls, tempted to stay under and succumb to the darkness. She resisted the temptation, however, and reemerged, gulping for air. Reaching for another bottle of shampoo, she quickly lathered and rinsed the chocolate brown locks. When she was finished, she lay back and closed her eyes, letting the water cool around her, the soapsuds slowly dissolving.

_"Harry! Hogsmeade is on fire! Voldemort's attacking Hogwarts!" Hermione ran in to the Burrow, her rain-wet robes plastered to her robes. Harry bolted to his feet, knocking over the chair he'd been sitting silently in. Ron stood beside him, as well as the rest of the Weasley clan, who'd just finished a somber family meal. _

_In the blink of an eye they were all gone, standing before the gates of Hogwarts and looking up at the remains of the once majestic castle with horror. They bolted up the sloping lawn without hesitating, throwing themselves in to the battle. Order members were already there, as well as Aurors and a great many witches and wizards who'd aligned themselves with the light and vowed to fight. Death Eaters, vampires, werewolves, giants, and Dementors poured out of the ruined castle, engaging their enemies in a ruthless fight to the death. Almost immediately, Harry sought out Voldemort. Their wands locked much like that fateful night at the end of their fourth year, cutting them off from the rest of the world around them. The Dementors circled the dome, keeping Harry's allies away and blocking everyone's view of the duel inside. Hermione knew Harry had prepared for this contingency, and was pretty sure Voldemort would have as well. She couldn't dwell on it, however, for she was suddenly hit with a curse from behind, sending her sprawling to the ground. _

_It felt like she fought for days, duel after duel, and still, the dome stood unwavering in the middle of the grounds. She was quickly tending to Neville, who had fallen victim to the Cruciatus, when the dome suddenly collapsed. The battle seemed to pause all around her, everyone looking at the circle of Dementors. Hermione could barely see the figures of Harry and Voldemort through the slightly transparent beings, meaning both were still alive. She let out a breath of relief, and hauled Neville to his feet. Rushing over, she was joined by members of the DA, each shouting the Patronus charm, sending the Dementors scattering. They were met with a startling sight. Harry and Voldemort were engaged in a brutal swordfight, their wands broken in half at their feet. Hermione was surprised to see that Harry was using Gryffindor's sword, fully repaired and gleaming in the ethereal green light of the Dark Mark. _

_With shock on her face, she watched in horror as Harry and Voldemort simultaneously thrust their swords through each other's stomachs. _

_"HARRY!" she screamed, rushing over to his side. She didn't make it, however, as a Death Eater jumped in her path. She quickly disabled it, but was soon attacked by Bellatrix Lestrange._

_"Miss? Hello? _MISS?" the worried voice suddenly woke her, and with a start, she snapped her head up, eyes flying open. Disoriented, Hermione blinked, taking in her surroundings with confusion. "Are you all right, miss?" a squeaky voice sounded beside her again. Hermione shook her head free of the dream and looked down at the house-elf who was standing beside the tub, an armful of flowery fabric in its arms.

"What?" Hermione muttered, subconsciously covering herself under the water, even though the house-elf couldn't see over the rim of the tub.

"I said is you being all right, miss?" it asked again, it's squeaky voice rising in pitch, grating on Hermione's nerves. She sighed softly and nodded.

"Yes, I'm fine," she murmured in reply, shifting in the water, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around her legs. The water around her was cool, and she could feel that her skin was well in to the pruney state.

"Master Cormac sends me up with these." It bowed low, holding the fabric over its head so that she could see. "It is being a dress of his daughter's. She is dropping it off an hour ago for young Miss," it continued in explanation, backing away to set it on the counter, beside a fluffy, white towel. "Master Cormac is thinking you is needing it while Milly washes and repairs your clothes."

So it was a girl, Hermione mused tiredly. She offered Milly a small smile of thanks. Saying no more, the house-elf curtseyed and disappeared with a pop. Standing, she let the rivulets of water stream down her chilled body before stepping out and wrapping the towel around her body. She picked up the dress, wrinkling her nose with distaste as it unraveled. It was definitely not a fashion she was familiar with, despite her love of history, and the floral pattern was sore on the eyes. But it was clean, and it would help her blend in to whatever time she was stuck in. She dried quickly and slipped the light, cotton material over her body. It was a tad baggy, but decent, and the material swished about her legs in a teasing manner. She dried her hair with a drying spell and tied it in a simple ponytail, something that would fit in any time period. She surveyed her appearance, shrugging at the plainness of her features. Returning to her room, she slipped her calf-high leather boots back on and sheathed her wand in the right one.

It was nearing eight o'clock when she descended the steps in to the pub. A few patrons sat scattered around the room, enjoying their evening meals, their conversations bouncing off the walls. Hermione smiled sadly and walked over to the bar where the old man from before was pouring a mug of ale for a hag dressed head to toe in magenta.

"Mister Cormac?" she murmured softly when he finished. He turned to her with a start, then smiled broadly as he took in her refreshed appearance.

"Ah, lass, you look a right sight better!" he exclaimed with a robust chuckle. Hermione blushed and looked down at her clasped hands.

"I just wanted to thank you for your hospitality," she said, meaning every word. If it hadn't been for him, she very well could have dropped from exhaustion and been the prey of any wild animal…or person.

"Think nothing of it, lass," he said, more solemn this time as he took in her sad eyes. "Cannae have a name out of you, then?" Cormac said after a brief pause. Hermione blinked stupidly, unsure of what to say. She could give him her real name, but would that have ramifications on the future? Would she negate her whole existence with that mere slip? When she didn't answer right away, he frowned. "Do you even remember it?"

"Hermione," she supplied at last, knowing it would be hard to adjust to another name. However, to err on the side of caution, she supplied a different last name. "Hermione Buchanan," she continued, borrowing the last name of a childhood friend.

"Well then, Miss Buchanan," he said, leaning forward on the bar, "do you have a place to stay?" Cormac inquired softly, his Scottish brogue rolling off his tongue and soothing Hermione's frazzled nerves.

"No," she whispered, blinking back tears. In that moment she realized the extent of her predicament. Her time turner was broken, she knew, remembering the sands of time floating in the darkness as she fell. Feeling the broken gold of the hourglass though the thin fabric of her dress only confirmed this fact. She was well and truly stuck, and she hadn't the faintest idea how to get home. A lone tear trekked silently down her pale cheek.

"You'll stay here, then, until you get on your feet," he murmured soothingly, taking in her distraught features. Hermione offered him a teary smile and nodded.

"Thank you sir," she said earnestly, resisting the urge to throw her arms around the stranger and hug him tightly. Instead, she looked over her shoulder at the high fireplace in the corner. "Might I use some of your floo powder? There's something I need to do," she asked tentatively.

"Of course," he nodded, shooing her with a gentle smile. Hermione smiled and turned, heading over to the fireplace, ignoring the curious eyes burning holes in her back. Taking a handful of powder, she stepped in to the fireplace, praying where she was going existed in this time and she wasn't about to make a fool of herself. She was still too exhausted to attempt apparation, and knew this was a safer bet.

"The Leaky Cauldron!" she exclaimed, and smiled in satisfaction as she was engulfed in green fire. The sensation of traveling through the floo dizzied her, and she nearly missed her stop. Stepping out of the fireplace, she dusted off her dress and looked around. The place hadn't changed a bit, though the young man standing behind the bar talking animatedly with an older woman looked vaguely familiar. She shrugged it off, however, and walked briskly over to the entrance to muggle London.

When she stepped out in to the cool night air she was shocked by the sight before her. Old-fashioned cars puttered down the cobblestone streets, going no faster than forty miles per hour and emitting enough fumes to make her eyes water. She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face to clear the smoke left behind by a particularly loud black model. She looked around at the people walking around, drinking in their appearance with hungry eyes. She was beginning to recognize a few things, like the style of car, the extravagant hats the ladies wore, and the whine of aircraft flying overhead.

Hermione hurried down the street, eyes trained on the ground until she came across a stray bit of paper that resembled a slightly soggy newspaper. Crouching, she picked it up and straightened the crinkled paper.

"April twenty-second," she whispered allowed, slightly surprised to realize that the it was the same day as when she'd left. Then the year caught her eye and she gasped loudly, dropping the newspaper in shock.

1943.

She had traveled 55 years back in time, exactly. Everything began to make sense to her then, and she realized with a start that the reason she recognized the things she did was because she'd read about the time in her history books in primary school when they'd studied the second World War. Straightening, she looked around until she spotted a brightly lit pub, loud strings of lively music spilling out of the open door. Hermione hurried across the street and tentatively entered the building.

Her ears were met with the sound of swing music. She smiled, recognizing the tune from one of her grandmother's old records. All around her, men in uniform and young women in brightly colored dressed danced gaily to "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy," swinging and leap-frogging all about the room. One couple did performed a rather impressive lindy hop in the center of the room, and soon enough, Hermione found herself clapping along with the crowd, laughing as partners switched and danced on, never losing the beat or their footing.

It was like a picture out of her history books had come to life. She was startled out of her musings when a good-looking man with boyish features dressed head to toe in a navy uniform approached her.

"Wanna dance?" he shouted over the crowd. Hermione quickly shook her head, declining his offer with a blush. "Awe, come on, pretty lady! I bet you dance better than the rest of 'em!" he wheedled, obviously not going to give up easily.

"No, really, I have two left feet," she replied, shaking her head vehemently. He pouted, but finally accepted her answer, walking away and accosting another young woman who was nursing what appeared to be an iced tea. Hermione took that as her opportunity to make a quick exit. She hurried through the streets, heading back to the Leaky Cauldron. She had learned what she'd set out to find.

She was in the time of Tom Riddle.

* * *

**AN:** How was that? Over twice as long as the prologue! Did it answer any of your questions? I bet you're dying to know if Voldemort and Harry both died, or if either survived. Well… I guess we'll never know! Hermione never saw the outcome, so neither shall we! Anyway, you know what to do! Review! 


	3. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: **Contrary to popular belief, I barely own myself, let alone the world of Harry Potter. Alas, some things were just never meant to be.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **It warms my heart to see how many of you appreciate the pains I went to in making Hermione's first foray into the 40's believable. I, too, have seen one too many fics where she waltzes around in 90's clothes, with no one at least a tad suspicious. I had to rectify that. I'm glad you are all enjoying my story thus far (well, those of you who reviewed anyway. Those who didn't… I haven't the faintest idea what you're thinking. Why don't you let me know by clicking the purple button at the bottom of the page!). I'm sorry it took me a bit longer to pop out this chapter. My sister just had major back surgery, and I've just begun babysitting for her while her husband is at work and she's laid up in bed. It's been an adjustment, to say the least. And on top of that, I went to the midnight premiere of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, so needless to say, I slept in. Oh. My. God. I don't want to spoil anything, so all I'll say is the Department of Mysteries/Ministry of Magic scenes were absolutely AMAZING. I was blown away! Anyhoo… Chapters will now come every other day, instead of every day, hopefully. Now, this story has already deviated drastically from my original outline, so expect a few delays because of that as well. Ok, I think I'm done rambling!

* * *

**_Chapter Two_**

"Hermione, love," Cormac murmured, walking over to the young woman who was wiping down the counter and humming to herself, completely oblivious to the world around her, "could you see to the chap in booth five?"

Hermione smiled and nodded, throwing the rag she'd been using in the sink and picking up a pad of paper to write down the person's order. Her bright eyes quickly scanned the dining area until it landed on the aforementioned booth, and when her gaze landed on the person sitting there, her heart gave a little jump for joy.

_'Hagrid!'_ she thought to herself, grinning goofily as she walked over. He was still huge, though less round around the middle, and his face was soft and boyish, instead of the rough appearance of a man who'd seen seventy years. His head was bowed almost solemnly, his shoulders hunched over as if he were trying to shrink and be less noticeable. _'Oh Hagrid, you'll always stand out in a crowd,'_ Hermione thought sadly. When she reached his booth, she subconsciously smoothed down her pencil skirt and cleared her throat softly.

"What can I get for you today, dear?" she asked gently. Hagrid peeked up at her through a tangle of bushy black hair, his eyes cautious and assessing. He must have sensed no threat, for he smiled faintly and straightened a little in his seat.

"I'll take the stew," he murmured, his voice already the deep grumble she could remember, despite only being thirteen. "An' a mug o' butterbeer," he added in a grunt. Hermione jotted down his order, trying to remain upbeat, though her heart was sinking with every word of exchange.

"I'll be right back with that," Hermione said, offering him a hesitant smile. He nodded curtly and quickly averted his gaze back to the table. With a soft sigh, she returned to the bar, giving Cormac the order and leaning against the counter. "What's the story with that fellow?" she asked softly, though she was sure she already knew.

"Hagrid?" Cormac scratched his head, furrowing his brows in contemplation. "Young chap, though he doesn't look it. Only thirteen, that one. Half-giant, you know?" He ladled heaping spoonfuls of stew in to a large bowl as he spoke, his brow still furrowed in thought. "Just expelled from Hogwarts a few days ago. Accused of killing a girl, a fellow student, I believe. Dumbledore doesn't believe he did it, and neither do I. Hagrid's as gentle as they come, for a half-giant anyway."

"How come he's not in Azkaban?" she whispered as she drew a frothing mug of butterbeer from the tap. She knew all this information already, of course, but it would seem suspicious if she suddenly knew Hagrid's life story without having asked.

"A chap his age? Dumbledore wouldn't have it. Vouched for him, he did," Cormac went on as he buttered a large slab of bread. "Ministry decided to release him in to Dumbledore's custody. Great man, that Dumbledore. Made Hagrid assistant groundskeeper. Boy has no place to go, what with his father gone and his mother… well, not very maternal."

"He looks like he could use a friend," Hermione murmured softly as she gathered Hagrid's order, balancing it the way Cormac had taught her. The old man grunted in agreement, a hint of approval in his quirked eyebrows. Hermione flashed him a soft smile before returning to the booth. "Here you go," she said, grinning broadly at the young teen in the hopes of perking him up with her cheer. He didn't look up this time, however, silently pulling the bowl of stew over and digging in like he hadn't eaten in weeks. She sighed softly, disappointed with her lack of progress. _'Ah well,' _she thought with a rueful smile, _'Rome wasn't built in a day.'_ She shrugged, picking up the pile of coins he'd dropped on the table. "My name is Hermione, so just call if you need anything else," she said after a moment, before turning on her heel and striding over to the kitchen.

Once safely inside, she snatched up a copy of the Daily Prophet that Cormac had lying around and devoured the news within. It still amazed her that she'd been in 1943 for almost two months and had yet to run in to a problem. At this thought, she reached over and knocked on the wooden cutting board. Silly superstition, she knew, but Hermione also knew her track record and felt it was better to be safe than sorry. Shaking the thoughts from her head, she turned to the page with the article about Moaning Myrtle's death and Hagrid's resultant expulsion. She couldn't help but berate herself for not doing anything to help the friendly giant. An anonymous tip – the truth about Tom Riddle and the Chamber of Secrets, including its location and how to get in – and Hagrid would be free and Voldemort would be a thing of the past. Or future.

Hermione really hated paradoxes.

"If I wasn't so absorbed in my own problems," she muttered angrily, tossing the paper in the waste bin. Whipping out her wand, she shot an angry chopping spell at the pile of carrots sitting on the counter and stewed in her self-loathing.

"Final Hogsmeade trip before term lets out is this weekend," Cormac's thick brogue sounded from the doorway. Whirling around, Hermione leveled a curious gaze on the older gentleman. It was true that while she'd been here for two months, she had yet to be around during a Hogsmeade trip. Cormac usually sent her out on errands those days, for whatever reason she had no idea. She couldn't help but wonder if he would keep her around this time. "It's usually the biggest – kids wanting to stock up on goodies before returning home for the summer hols – so I'm going to need your help around here."

"All right," she answered evenly, her face the picture of calm despite the intense emotions that were now roiling through her body. In the back of her mind she knew that eventually she would have to face the teen that would be Lord Voldemort, but it still seemed surreal – just a dream, a figment of her imagination - and it probably wouldn't become real until she set eyes on him for the first time.

They worked in silence for a while; Hermione magically chopping the vegetables while Cormac blended them together in a perfect mixture for his famous stew. Hermione's mind was still in turmoil, wondering what she should do with the knowledge she had on Tom Riddle. She could save the world! But what if in attempting to save the world, she actually destroyed it? What if her very presence in this time damned the future to the horror she'd left behind.

What if? What if? What if?

Hermione banged her hand on the counter and growled in frustration. Ignoring Cormac, she crumpled to the floor, resting her head in shaking hands as she tried to get her emotions under control.

"Why don't ye take a break, lass?" Cormac suggested softly, all too used to Hermione's random bursts of emotion. He knew she must have been through something terrible, but he didn't push her for answers. He respected her privacy, as long as she helped out around the pub, kept her room clean, and respected the customers.

Sometimes he heard the nightmares. Night after night filled with anguished screams for Harry, Ron, and other faceless names that left him shivering in his bed, her fear palpable and seeping in to his old bones. But he didn't pry. Never did he pry.

"No, no, I'm fine," she hurried to reply, shoving to her feet and hastily wiping her tears on the collar of her white blouse. At his skeptical look, she shot him a smile and straightened her skirt. "Really, Cormac. I'm fine, I promise."

"Well," he nodded, shuffling back to his pot of stew, "if you insist." Hermione stared at his back for a long moment, noticing the sad slump of his shoulders as he hunched over the boiling pot. She'd done this to him. Taken the fire out of his eyes with her problems. Biting her bottom lip, she rushed over and hugged him from behind. Startled, he turned, and seeing the distraught look on her face, encompassed her in a grandfatherly hug. "I know, lass. I know."

* * *

The chaos that was a Hogwarts end of year Hogsmeade trip never ceased to amaze Hermione. Even in her own time, this last trip had always been crazy with students running to and fro, frantic to empty their money pouches on the trinkets that could only be found in this small wizarding village. 1943, she discovered, was no different. Only a few hours had passed since the hoard of teens swooped down on the village, and her head was already pounding from the dozens and dozens of orders that she had taken. Of course, it didn't help that she was anxious about running in to a certain future Dark Lord.

It would seem that luck was on her side, however, when hour-by-hour passed and the dangerous, dark-haired teen failed to make an appearance.

"Table three, lass!" Cormac shouted from the bar as he filled a pitcher with butterbeer for a table of Hufflepuffs that had just showed up. The second he was done filling it she flicked her wand at the pitcher and levitated it, along with a dozen mugs, through the crowd to the table.

"Excuse me!" she mumbled in apology as she nearly bumped in to a tall, gangly Gryffindor who reminded her eerily of the Weasley twins. Her gaze lingered on the gawky teen as she continued to move through the gaggle of young patrons. "Ack!" she squeaked as she plowed in to a warm body, the pitcher full of creamy liquid falling from the air with her broken concentration and dumping it's contents on herself and the unfortunate person she'd knocked over. "Merlin, I am so sorry," she muttered, berating herself as she disentangled herself from the other person's limbs, surreptitiously covering her dampened front while silently berating herself for wearing a white blouse.

"I'm surprised you can manage a levitating spell when you can't even manage to watch where you're going," a deep, chillingly cold male voice sneered from beneath the tangle of robes that had flipped over his head. Hermione froze at the words, a sudden chill running down her spine and causing her to shiver unconsciously. She scrambled backward across the slick floor, bumping in to the legs of curious onlookers, her chocolate brown eyes large with fright as he watched the man emerge from the very Slytherin robes.

She knew the instant she met his icy gray eyes that she was in the presence of one Tom Marvolo Riddle. And despite her inner voice yelling at her to act casual, she couldn't wipe the look of complete terror off her face as he glared at her from his position on the floor.

"Don't hurt me," she whispered despite herself. She didn't notice the brief look of shock that crossed his pale features, and it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. Rolling his eyes in a condescending manner, he took out his wand and muttered a cleaning and drying spell before moving gracefully to his feet. As he towered above her, Hermione couldn't stop the small whimper that escaped.

_"Filthy mudblood," the high-pitched voice was malicious as it hung in the air over her. Hermione cowered against the cold stonewall, folding in to herself and refusing to look up at the monster towering above her. "You will look at me when I address you!" the angry screech was followed by a bout of the Cruciatus curse. Hermione bit her tongue, tasting coppery blood as she fought not to scream._

_They would be here soon. Harry would rescue her. His hero complex wouldn't allow him to leave her at the mercy of Voldemort. _

_"You think your little friends will save you?" As if reading her mind, the mocking words echoed through the damp dungeon. "You are worthless to them, a mere pawn in this enormous game of strategy." A kick to her side caused Hermione to cry out, eliciting an inhuman sinister laugh from the Dark Lord. "You __**will**__ tell me where that pathetic Order is hiding Harry Potter, little Secret Keeper."_

_"I'll die before I tell you anything," she spat, finally looking up at the snake-like man, glaring through a tangle of frizzy brown hair matted with dried blood and other unsavory substances._

_"Oh, you will tell me, of that I have no doubt," Voldemort cackled, and then in the blink of an eye, his face was centimeters away from her own. Hermione flinched, eliciting a triumphant, crooked smile that sent shivers down her spine. "And then I will kill you."_

_"Not if I kill you first," she hissed in reply, suddenly emboldened by the reality of her own mortality. _

_"Feisty," he murmured with a deliciously wicked smirk. His empty eyes flashed a crimson red as he reached out a pale, skeletal hand and caressed her dirt-stained cheek. "Perhaps there is more use for you yet, mudblood." Hermione shuddered in disgust at the insinuation laced through Voldemort's words. When he smirked in satisfaction, she knew he'd seen her moment of weakness. He left her then, the metal bars of the cell slamming closed behind her._

_She sat in that darkness for days with naught but a cup of foul tasting water every other day before salvation arrived from the last person she expected._

_"Granger?" a voice whispered through the bars of her cell, waking her from a fitful slumber. "Hermione?" it sounded again, softer this time. Startled, she crawled over to the door and strained to see the figure silhouetted against the faint light of a nearby torch._

_"Malfoy?" she asked, stunned. She would recognize the Slytherin's voice anywhere, and the hint of white-blond hair peeking out from the lip of his raised hood confirmed her suspicions. "What are you doing? Come to torture me yourself?" she sneered, backing away from the bars and leaning against the wall._

_"No," came the hesitant reply. There was silence for a moment before suddenly, with a great wrenching sound, the door swung inward with a rush of putrid air. "I've come to save you."_

"You leave 'er alone, Riddle!" a deep, rumbling voice barked, snapping Hermione out of her memory. Before she even knew what was happening, a giant, slightly calloused hand reached down and plucked her off the ground. _'Hagrid!' _she realized with a burst of relief.

"Rubeus Hagrid," Riddle drawled, twirling his wand between long, thin fingers. "Murderer of young girls," he added, looking pointedly at Hermione. "I'd be careful with who you let rescue you." The warning caused his fellow Slytherins to cackle in delight. Hermione glared at him, ignoring the crowd that had gathered.

"Oh, I'll be careful all right," she snapped, sending him a pointed look of her own. This time she did see the fleeting look of shock that crossed his normally stoic face. With a smirk of triumph, she turned to the young half-giant who still had a large, gentle hand place protectively on her shoulder. "Come on, Mister Hagrid, I have a bowl of stew with your name written all over it," and, looping her arm through his, strode away from the gaping crowd and seething Slytherin to the bar where Cormac stood with a proud grin stretching across his leathery features.

_'Hermione, one, Tom, zero.'_

* * *

**AN: **Ok, so truthfully, I'm not entirely thrilled with this chapter. However, it did set up the first confrontation between our two main characters, which is what I was aiming to do. I blame this crap on my lack of sleep, combined with long hours spent with bratty children in a hot, muggy, non-air conditioned house. I'm going to bed now. I promise the next chapter will be better! Oh, and the story as now COMPLETELY deviated from my original outline. Go figure. Ah well. I like this new direction better, anyway, even if I didn't execute it to the best of my abilities. Ok, I'll shut up now. PLEASE REVIEW! 


	4. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer: **I have to save up the last of my money for Deathly Hallows so I can't afford to be sued; therefore, I do not claim to own anything relating to the world of Harry Potter.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note:** For those of you who expressed concern and well wishes regarding my sister and her back surgery, I extend my deepest thanks. She was in a major car accident in 1993, and sadly, is still having back problems to this day. She's had 5 surgeries in the past 4 years, and none of them seem to be holding. This go around, her vertebrae fractured in three places, and an old fusion didn't hold (they seem to be breaking like dominoes now), so they took some bone from her hip to fuse the fractures together. The surgery was a success, but we don't know how long, or if it will hold at all. So, we just have to keep our fingers crossed that it worked this time. I really don't want her to have to end up in a wheelchair when she's only 30. Ok, now on to the topic of this story. I was pleasantly surprised that everyone enjoyed the last chapter, even though I was a bit disappointed with it. It bolstered my spirits, to say the least. **Right or Ryn** – You've given me some amazing ideas for this chapter, so I must give credit where credit is due. Do I have any other words of wisdom to impart? No, I don't think so. Well, then! On with the show!

* * *

_**Chapter Three**_

"Ugh! This is hopeless!" Hermione muttered in frustration, slamming closed the heavy tome she'd been paging through and shoving it roughly back on to the shelf, sending a cloud of dust in the air and causing her to sneeze multiple times. The shop proprietor shot her a stern look, and if it had been any other time, Hermione would have felt properly chastised. As it was, she had searched the entire store and had found absolutely nothing on the effects of meddling in time and changing the course of history, nor had she found a way to get back home. And to top it all off, this was the third magical bookstore she'd searched in the past two days. Dervish and Banges in Hogsmeade didn't even have a section on time travel, and Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley had only vague references. Now she'd done the unthinkable and traveled in to the dark recesses of Knockturn Alley, and the suspect establishment claiming to sell books was little better than it's less disreputable counterpart in Diagon Alley.

Sighing heavily, Hermione resisted the temptation to whip out her wand and blast the nearest bookshelf.

"As much as I love you," she whispered heatedly, glaring at the colorful, dusty spines across from where she stood, "I'm really beginning to _hate_ you."

"Sacrilege, truly," a soft voice sounded out of the shadows, laced with amusement and curiosity, though slightly menacing at the same time. "What did those books ever do to you?" The figure behind the voice remained behind a curtain of darkness, but Hermione would recognize it anywhere.

Shuddering despite herself, she backed away from the direction the voice was coming from, bumping in to a tall rack and nearly knocking it over. Her face contorted in to a mask of confusion and fear, afraid of what he would do to her now that he had her cornered and alone. Surely he would pay her back for the previous weekend's insinuations, right? He was that evil, after all.

Hermione worried her bottom lip between her teeth, drawing blood when she winced as Tom Riddle finally stepped out of the shadows.

"Why are you so afraid of me?" It was whispered, though an accusatory edge remained. He was not upset by her fright, nor dismayed, but curious and slightly disturbed. As far as he knew, he'd never met this woman in his life. He was a model student, a Prefect at Hogwarts, and had recently won the award for Special Services to the school for catching a murderer in their midst… Of course, nobody had to know that he was the true murderer, that he was the one who had opened the Chamber of Secrets and released the Basilisk. Only a select few Slytherin's under his command knew his true nature, and his mark ensured that they remain loyal. He would feel it if they didn't. So how did it explain this girl's obvious fright of him? A fear so palpable, it was like he had single handedly destroyed everything she knew and loved. Which was preposterous. Myrtle's death was his worst crime yet.

_'But that will all change tonight'_ he thought to himself with a sneer, thinking of his worthless muggle father and his equally worthless family. They would pay for abandoning him.

"I'm not afraid of you," Hermione whispered, though she wasn't sure who she was trying to convince more, herself or Tom. He snapped his gaze back to her, and she couldn't help but wonder if his thoughts had drifted. If so, what had they drifted to? _'I'm not entirely sure I want to know'_ she thought with a slight shudder.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped in reply, running an elegantly long, tapered finger along the spines of the books she'd been perusing. They were all on the concept of time, time travel, paradoxes and alternate universes. Hermione silently prayed that he didn't read the titles. Thankfully, while his fingers moved in a dance that would be better suited for a piano, his empty, cold gaze lingered on her.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she countered softly, inwardly flinching at her gall. She didn't have Cormac or Hagrid to save her this time. The shop proprietor was busy wiping down the counter with a dirty rag, purposefully ignoring the altercation in the stacks. _'Riddle probably has something on him,'_ she snorted, rolling her eyes. He caught this, his eyebrows raising a notch as he folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the stack opposite her.

"Research," he replied simply, wondering what reaction that would garner from this infuriatingly interesting woman.

Hermione resisted the temptation to laugh at his answer. Research, hah! How to be evil? _'Don't need books for that,'_ she thought darkly, her eyes narrowing in to a glare, which she leveled upon the teenage Voldemort. His eyes narrowed in return.

"You didn't answer my question," he muttered darkly, and Hermione could swear he was more annoyed that angry. _'I must really be getting under his skin,'_ she thought with a smirk, straightening slightly. Her hand unconsciously moved to the belt cinching the loose dress tightly around her waist, fingering the wand that was hidden in the folds of the fabric. "What are you doing here?" he reiterated, his voice tight and laced with frustration.

"Research," Hermione smirked cheekily, lifting her chin haughtily. Tom's face seemed to turn three shades of red with her remark, and he took a menacing step forward. All at once, her bravery drained, leaving her cowering against the stack of books once more. He stopped suddenly, shocked by the sudden transformation of feisty woman to whimpering girl.

"For Merlin's sake, I am not going to hurt you!" he exploded in frustration, lending absolutely no credibility to his statement. Hermione's chocolate eyes grew wide.

"I'd believe that more if you weren't towering over me with the wrath of Hades in your eyes," she whispered, her own usually smooth, melodic voice faltering, roughened by fear. Tom seemed to shrink back at that, all emotion leaving his face once more as he schooled his features into neutrality.

"If you'll excuse me," he muttered, the ire in his voice giving away what his eyes would not, "I have a visit to my father to prepare for." Before Hermione could reply, he was sweeping out of the store in a swish of black robes that reminded her eerily of Snape.

And then his words hit her.

A visit. With his father.

Memories ran through her mind like a freight train, pummeling her brain with an overload of information. It was the summer of 1943, nearing the end of June, just a week after Hogwarts let out, when Tom Riddle had journeyed to Little Hangleton and murdered his father and grandparents, framing his uncle, Morfin Gaunt, for the crime, and creating his first Horcrux in the diary.

_'Oh God,'_ Hermione thought, her hand flying to her mouth and stomach lurching with a wave of nausea brought on by her sudden revelation.

Tom Riddle is going to kill his father. Tonight.

She knew instantly she had to do something to stop him, damn the consequences. _'When you have the power to affect change, and you do nothing, then you are no better than the person or thing that created the problem to begin with.'_ Hermione thought feverishly as she hurried from the shop, away from prying eyes that could report her movement back to young Voldemort. When she was safely ensconced in the dark recess of an alley off the back end of Knockturn Alley, she twirled on her spot, concentrating with all she had on Little Hangleton. Destination. Determination. Deliberation.

She felt compressed suddenly, as if all the air in the world had been sucked out, creating a vast vacuum of space, until, just as suddenly, the air rushed back in and she was standing at the base of a hill, atop which stood an impressive manor that looked nothing like the crumbling, run down building where Voldemort had hidden during their fourth year. Hermione and Ron first saw it on their search for the Horcruxes, when they revisited the shack of the Gaunts, looking for leads, which eventually led them to the former Riddle mansion and Hufflepuff's cup.

The sun was quickly setting, leaving dusk in its wake. The Riddles would soon be sitting down for their evening meal, which Dumbledore had revealed to be their last, for Voldemort had barged in and murdered them in mid-bite. If she didn't hurry, she would be too late, and run the risk of being caught by Tom.

With a burst of energy she hadn't felt since the beginning of the war, she whipped out her wand and ran up the hill, heading straight for the door. She didn't bother knocking, simply barging in and rushing in to what she remembered to be the abandoned dining area. Except for this time, it wasn't abandoned.

Two men holding a striking resemblance to one another though the age difference was great, and an older woman stared at her in shock and slight fear. The casserole dish that the woman had been holding crashed to the floor, sending vegetables skittering across the polished floor.

"I'm not going to hurt you!" Hermione exclaimed quickly, which did nothing to ease the Riddles' fears. "I'm here to warn you! To help you! Please, you have to believe me!" she added, desperation lacing her voice. The younger male blinked stupidly, before noticing the wand she held in her shaking hand. She knew immediately that this was Voldemort's father, for, if he had been a decade younger, could have passed as the evil Slytherin's twin.

"You're a witch!" he exclaimed, a new fear in his eyes. His parents scrambled back, reaching out for each other and clinging with an urgent desperation.

"Yes, but you have to listen to me! I'm good, I swear it!" Hermione dropped her wand on the table as a gesture of good faith. The old couple relaxed visibly at this, but their son did not. "Tom, listen. Merope was pregnant when she lifted the love spell she had on you! She ran away and gave birth to a son, your son, in a muggle orphanage. He believes that you abandoned him! That you didn't want him! And he's been building a grudge, a deep, unfathomable hate for you ever since. He's going to come here and kill you all, tonight, if you don't leave, if you don't hide! Please! You have to believe me!"

"I have a son?" Tom Sr. whispered in awe, all of Hermione's warnings having no effect on him. His face lit up like it was Christmas, shocking everyone in the room. Hermione shook her head, stamping her foot to get his attention.

"A son that is hell-bent on killing his muggle father! And since he believes you abandoned him, he's associated your muggle status with the rest of the non-magical population and harbors a prejudice that would put Hitler's hate for the Jews to shame!" Her words were drastic, she knew, but she couldn't think of a more appropriate analogy that would convey the weight of the situation properly. Hermione took a deep breath and circled the table until she was standing face to face with the handsome man that had fathered the future dark lord. "Do you want your son to be the next Hitler? Only with the power of magic behind him? He could bring the world to it's knees if nobody stops him," she paused, her ears suddenly perking as she heard the distinct sound of a slightly rusted iron gate swinging open. "He's coming now," she whispered urgently. She pierced Tom Sr. with a heavy gaze. "Those who have the power to affect change and do nothing are no better than the person or thing that created the problem to begin with."

He blinked again, her words sinking in to his brain as she hurried over to his parents, grabbing their shaking hands in her own.

"Merope named him after you, by the way," she whispered, mentally preparing for side-along apparation. "I guess she really did love you."

In the blink of an eye, Tom Riddle Sr. watched as his parents disappeared with a nameless witch to some unknown place. He wondered if he'd ever see them again – if any of this was real, and if this woman could be trusted.

The sound of the floor creaking snapped him out of his thoughts, and quickly, he moved in to the shadows of the dimly lit dining room. He watched in slight awe as a young man entered the room, his cold eyes darting around as his pale, bony hand clenched a long, thin stick of wood. If it hadn't been for the utter lack of emotion being displayed, he would have sworn that his own portrait had come to life, stepping out of the frame and in to the real world.

"She never told me she was pregnant," he whispered, causing his son to whip around, the swinging door to the adjacent kitchen sliding closed with a rush as he abandoned that route. "I never would have abandoned you, my son. But I didn't know. She never told me." The younger man's eyes remained riveted on the corner where he stood, and, taking a deep breath, he stepped from the shadows and in to the light. His breath hitched in his throat as his son raised what he remembered to be a wand, pointing it straight at his heart. "Please believe me," he whispered, echoing the nameless woman's plea.

"If she never told you, then how is it you know who I am now," his son spoke, the voice cold and menacing and powerful all at once. Tom Sr. flinched in fear, truly afraid of what his son was capable of. If this woman spoke the truth, he was capable of murder. And that scared him like nothing ever had. He had to think fast. Something told him that the woman didn't want to be known, that her very life depended on him keeping the secret of her existence. She may have already saved his parent's lives by taking them away. The least he could do was repay the favor.

"I received an anonymous letter a few days ago, telling me of your existence," he supplied. If he had known of the art of Legilimancy, he would have been, at that moment, greatly relieved that his son had yet to master it. "I immediately started searching for you, but I've had nothing but dead ends. The magical world is a world of it's own – I didn't have the first clue where to begin," he added, praying that the menacing young man glaring at him bought the lie.

A heavy silence descended upon the room as Tom Jr. seemed to consider his father's words. For the first time since setting eyes on him, Tom Sr. watched an array of emotions flicker across his face, lighting his gray eyes with a fire that reminded him oddly of melting ice. For some reason, this worried him more than the stoic expression did.

"May I see the letter?" he spoke at last, his voice a dangerous whisper. Tom Sr. felt his heart speed up at the request, and he suddenly felt trapped. Then he remembered something from his time spent with Merope. Whenever she received correspondence from her family, which was extremely rare and usually only to berate and curse her, it would always burst in to flames when she finished reading it.

"I don't have it. It set aflame the second I finished reading it," he supplied hastily, once again praying that his son bought the lie. "Tom, please believe me. I would have loved you from the moment you were born if Merope hadn't robbed me of the chance. Please, let me try now. Let me be a father to you."

He waited with baited breath as a palpable silence once again fell. The air was thick with emotion, almost suffocating in its intensity. The younger man had turned his head, glaring at the half-set dinner table, his hand clenching and unclenching his wand as countless thoughts raced through his head.

_'This wasn't a part of my plan!'_ Tom thought to himself, biting his tongue to stave off a sudden flood of foreign emotions that surged through his body. _'He's supposed to hate me, to resent me! He abandoned me! He deserves to die!'_ he tried to reason, but the emotions kept pushing, causing him to bite down harder on his tongue, drawing the coppery taste of blood in to his mouth. _'She didn't tell him. She didn't tell him. The bitch didn't tell him. I could have had a father. I could have had a family. A family. Family. Home. Family. Home. Secure. No taunts, no teases, no pain, no hate. A father. Family. No orphanage. A father. Grandparents. Family. Love. I could have been loved!'_ The thoughts spiraled out of control until he let out an angry wail, doubling over an clutching his stomach, punching it as if that act alone would banish the sudden swell of emotions that was taking over his body.

"Tom!" he exclaimed, rushing over to his son and reaching out a hand. He was shoved roughly away, however, and sent sprawling to the ground. He thought, in that moment, that he would be killed. But the youngest Riddle said nothing as he straightened, his body going taut and his hand clenching around his wand once again. He leveled that cold gaze upon the man on the floor, his stormy gray eyes boring in to the lighter gray of his father's. He saw hope there, hidden behind the fear. Clenching his teeth, Tom Riddle Jr. held out a shaking hand to the man who had sired him. His father's hand shook as it raised off the ground and clasped his own. He was pulled gracefully to his feet, his hand immediately released when he was on solid footing once more. His son turned his back then, his shoulders high and tight.

"I'll be in touch," he muttered, and, in a rush of air, disappeared much like the nameless woman had. Collapsing in a chair, Tom Sr. sighed heavily, dropping his head in his arms and letting out a relieved sob.

* * *

"Stay here, please," Hermione instructed the elderly couple, who sat numbly on her bed at the Three Broomsticks. "I will return as soon as I learn of your son's fate." They nodded, still holding on to one another as if their very lives depended on it. Hermione leveled a sad smile on them. "I'm sure he is fine, but I must make sure before I return you to your home." 

Grabbing a cloak, she wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, raising the hood until it obscured her face, and disapparated with a loud pop. She arrived in an alley a few blocks away from the muggle orphanage that Tom returned to every summer. She hurried out of the alley and down the street, being careful to stay in the shadows as she looked for the orphanage she remembered from their search for Ravenclaw's wand. When she found it, in far better condition than she remembered, she removed her cloak, transfiguring it in to a book that she clutched in her arms. She stood in the shadows, waiting for what seemed like an eternity, before she heard the telltale pop of apparation from an alley across the street. Quickly, she opened the book and stepped out of the shadows, hurrying along the street with her nose buried.

"Oomph!" a rough voice sounded as she bumped in to him. She hid her smirk of triumph as she scrambled to her feet, glaring at Tom Riddle. He glared up at her from his perch on the sidewalk. "Oh, it's you again. Don't you ever watch where you're going?" he muttered darkly, his voice missing the menacing quality it usually had.

"Only sometimes," she remarked with a smirk, reaching out a hand to help him up while simultaneously questioning the action. He stared at her hand for a moment, before grudgingly taking it and allowing her to pull him to his feet. She backed away a moment when his glare intensified.

Hermione shook her head and took a deep breath. She had come here to find out what had happened after she'd left with the senior Riddles, and that was exactly what she as going to do.

"How did your visit with your father go?" she asked tentatively as he began to walk away. He stopped abruptly, his foot perched on the first step of the orphanage. He didn't turn to face her when he finally spoke, but Hermione could still see the flash of some powerful emotion flicker across his face.

"Fine. We have some issues to work through, but it was fine," he replied evenly. After a few moments, when she didn't reply, he pivoted on his toes and looked down at her blankly. "Why do you care?"

"Just curious, I suppose," Hermione shrugged, inwardly delighting at his answer to her question. If she deciphered it right, than his father should be alive and well.

"Right," he drawled, fingering the wand in the pocket of his black trousers almost nervously. "Are you going to make it a habit of bumping in to me?" he suddenly asked, eyes narrowing. Hermione shrugged once again, a small smirk gracing her lips.

"Maybe."

"Right," he said again, and Hermione nearly reeled back when his glare suddenly turned in to a hesitantly playful smirk. "At least give me a name so I know who to blame when I end up at St. Mungo's with a fractured back."

"Hermione," she stuttered, still shocked at this complete one-eighty. She had only dared to hope that he wouldn't kill his father. She hadn't ever expected him to be nice, or _playful_. It was slightly disturbing, to say the least. And it had the potential to wreak havoc on all her preconceived notions of the boy who would be Voldemort.

"Always a pleasure, Hermione," he drawled sarcastically, ascending the stairs briskly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have some packing to do." And without looking back, he disappeared through the heavy, oak doors. Hermione stood on the sidewalk, floored at this sudden development. When a young street urchin tried sneaking his hand in to her dress pocket, she started out of her shocked trance and looked down. He grinned sheepishly, about to run away, when Hermione distractedly handed him a few muggle coins she always carried for emergencies. She stared back up at the door to the orphanage in awe, a small smile slowly spreading across her face.

"Well, I'll be damned."

* * *

**AN:** Shocked? Yeah, me too. I can't even use my outline anymore, this plot has deviated so drastically. I didn't even see that coming! My fingers have a mind of their own, I swear! And for those of you who might believe I made Tom too OOC, remember, he is now a very conflicted, confused young man. He will go back and forth a lot over the next chapters. So, stay tuned! 


	5. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer: **Someday I'll wish upon a star and wake up in the world of Harry Potter! But apparently, that day is not today. I own nothing!

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **Depending on how my week goes, this may or may not be the last chapter before Deathly Hallows comes out. Then it may be another week before I update, because I'll have to let everything sink in before I'd even begin to fathom writing in to an AU universe (because, lets face it, this story **will** be AU after DH is released). But I fell in love with this plot, and it looks like you all have as well, so I have no intentions of abandoning it, no matter what happens in the last book. Have faith, dear readers! I will finish this story, even if it kills me! Anyway, a huge thanks to everyone that reviewed. Your continued support is what gives me the drive to finish this beast in the first place.

* * *

_**Chapter Four**_

"Tom!" a surprised voice uttered as the door swung open, revealing the thirty-something man that had sired him. Tom's shoulders stiffened, his eyes going cold as he took in his father's obvious shock at seeing him. Not for the first time, he wondered if this was the right move – if he should have just done away with his filthy muggle family and moved on with his life, and his plans.

"I said I'd be in touch," he muttered defensively, eyes narrowing, one hand clutching the handle of his trunk until his knuckles turned white, while the other hovered anxiously over the trouser pocket that housed his wand.

"No, yes, of course, of course!" his father stuttered, stepping aside and waving him in. Tom saw him eye his trunk as he passed and moved in to the wide entry hall. _'I knew this was a bad idea,'_ he thought with an inward sneer. "Here, let me," the older man's voice broke in to his thoughts, taking the handle of the trunk and hauling it across the large foyer. "Your room is this way. I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of having one prepared."

"What?" Tom snapped, slightly shocked. The older man simply grinned in reply, tugging the heavy trunk up the grand stairway. They moved through the house quickly, the elder Tom Riddle stopping here and there to point out rooms like the lavatory and the modest library. Finally, they came to a door at the end of the hall. With melodramatic flair, his father pushed the door open, revealing the bedroom beyond.

Intrigued, Tom lifted a solitary eyebrow and walked in to the room, back stiff and lips pursed. The first thing he noticed was the full-size bed dominating the center of the room, against the wall opposite a modest fireplace that would probably turn the room in to a furnace during the winter. It was high off the polished wooden floor and covered with satiny fabric in rich, autumn tones. On the wall beside the door stood a large armoire that would more than hold his meager amount of clothes and other possessions. Two windows across the way were covered with white draperies that served the dual purpose of blocking the morning sun and highlighting the height of the ceiling. It was sparsely decorated, which was okay with Tom, who preferred simple, clean lines to the extravagant pictures and posters his peers preferred.

"It will do," he said imperiously, with a nod of finality. Tom Sr. chuckled softly, setting the trunk at the end of the bed and then shoving his hands in his pockets as he looked about the room.

"It doesn't have an attached bath, I'm afraid," he murmured, watching his newly acquired son out of the corner of his eyes. "But the lav down the hall isn't used by anyone, so you're free to do with it as you like." He looked at the teen anxiously, bouncing on his toes as he waited for some kind of reaction other than this detached indifference.

"That's fine," Tom muttered, finally meeting the other man's gaze, taken aback by the sincerity he found. "Thank you," he added, softer, his silky voice lilting over the words somewhat awkwardly. He'd said them many times before, charming the various authority figures at Hogwarts, as well as his fellow students. Never before had he meant the words. He was surprised, and more than a little shocked to find that this time he did.

"Excellent!" Tom Sr. smiled broadly, backing toward the door. "Well then, dinner is in an hour, so I'll leave you to unpack and settle in," he said, hand resting on the doorknob. "And Tom?" Tom looked up at the other man, his eyebrows furrowed in question.

"Yes?" he said, his voice once again lacking emotion, unsure of what to think or feel. He was more than a little overwhelmed – a feeling he loathed to admit to. His father smiled softly, his gray eyes twinkling in an infuriatingly Dumbledore-like way.

"Welcome home," he whispered before the door closed softly behind him, leaving the troubled youth to sit heavily on the bed, mouth agape.

"Home," Tom echoed, snorting softly in amazement. He sat there for a while, staring blankly at the door, expecting someone to swing it open and reveal that the entire thing was just a huge joke, that he'd been had, that he didn't have a home or a father, and that he was a fool to think that he'd ever deserved one. But no one came, and ever so slowly the ice melted from his gaze, his features relaxed, and he allowed himself to sink back on to the plush mattress, staring in wonder at the ceiling.

After a while, he moved off the bed and kicked open the lid of his trunk. He made short work of hanging his second-hand clothes, sneering at each patch of faded fabric that passed through his hands. He did his best to keep them in good repair. He'd reasoned that just because he was forced to wear the hand-me-downs the orphanage had to offer, he didn't have to dress like a pauper. When he entered Hogwarts at he tender age of eleven, one of the first things he'd set about learning were garment repair charms that had worked wonders on the holes and tatty fabric. Though it was obvious he didn't come from money, he'd no longer looked like a common street beggar. As long as he carried himself well, excelled in classes, and was the picture of charm and sophistication, no one seemed to notice his less-than-perfect attire.

Tom shook off the memories as he hung the last of his school robes and turned back to his half-empty trunk. His box of treasures lay securely nestled between his school supplies, enticing him to open, to explore, to _remember._

Almost reverently, he lifted the box from his place and carried it to the bed, where he sat once more, stroking the worn cover and wondering if he should open it. Unbidden, a thousand memories flooded the surface of his mind as he removed the cover, setting his eyes on the random baubles within. A yo-yo, a silver thimble, a harmonica – all remnants of his childhood at the orphanage, all reminders of the horrid child he had been. A broken quill, a half-empty bottle of violent ink, a Gryffindor tie – all trophies from his schooldays at Hogwarts, all reminders of the evil that had continued to rule his young life. And at the bottom, a brand new diary bound in black leather with the initials 'T.M.R.' inscribed in gold leaf at the bottom – a treasure earned, bought with the meager amount of coins saved up from the monthly allowance provided by the very scholarship that had ensured his place at Hogwarts. It was the very diary he'd been planning to use to make his first Horcrux – the first of many planned tears in his soul. Only the most vial, most evil of acts could rip a soul in two, he knew. Murder. His father's murder would have been the first tear, and as soon as he learned of the spell to implant the half of soul in the diary, he would have created his first Horcrux.

But he never murdered his father.

And so the diary sat at the bottom of the box. For how long, Tom was unsure. These thoughts and memories were beginning to unsettle him, gnawing at the heartstrings he'd been damned sure never existed. Cramming the items back in to the box, he shoved it to the back of the armoire, stowing it behind his heavy winter cloak, loath to set eyes on it again. Only when it was out of sight did he begin to relax once more.

Shaking his head in confusion, Tom quickly finished unpacking his belongings, transfiguring an old, empty candy tin in to a suitable desk, which he set up between the two windows. With almost obsessive care, he placed his rolls of parchment, inkwells, and quills atop the desk. An old sock was transfigured in to a long, wall-mount shelf, which he hung on the wood with a fastening spell and quickly piled his numerous books on top in alphabetical order.

Satisfied, he stepped back and surveyed his work. Hands on hips, he smirked, turning slowly in a circle and taking in his surroundings.

"It will do," he murmured with a nod. Kicking off his shoes, he moved once again to the bed and reclined, hands clasped behind his head. Breathing deeply, Tom closed his eyes and focused his magical energy on clearing his mind. He'd been working since the beginning of the year to learn Occlumency, which would segue into the art of Legilimancy, and had been rather successful. One problem he'd run against, however, was that no matter how much energy he concentrated, one memory would always float to the surface.

This time, it was the memory of his last run-in with the waitress from the Three Broomsticks – Hermione – outside of the London orphanage he'd been raised in. He blinked rapidly, jolted out of his trance as his mind finally allowed him to ponder the question that had been buried beneath the more important events of that day.

'_What was she doing there? It couldn't have been a coincidence. She had to have known where to find me, right?'_ he thought frantically, eyes narrowing in a mixture of confusion and anger. _'What right does she have to follow me? To monitor my life and implant herself in it with carefully planned run-ins?'_ As his ire grew, his back stiffened, hands flying to his sides, itching to whip out the wand and curse something. _'Just who the hell does she think she is?'_

* * *

"Hermione!" a gruff voice shouted over the din of the evening crowd. Hermione whipped around, her face growing in to a brilliant smile as Hagrid lumbered over, a shy smile hiding behind a curtain of shaggy hair.

"Hagrid!" she replied, hugging him around the middle. He may technically be younger than her, but experience had matured him beyond his years, and she couldn't help but think of his older-self every time they met. "What brings your handsome self to my neck of the woods?" she asked as she ushered him to the bar, circling around and filling a tankard with butterbeer. He took three long swigs, draining the beverage and letting out a rather loud belch. He looked sheepish as he slid the mug across the counter. Hermione merely chuckled and filled it again.

"Now don' be angry," he muttered, his eyes shifting back and forth as if searching for something. "But I asked a friend to come and meet you," he said, ducking his head in shame. Hermione bristled, her hands instantly flying to her hips as she glared at Hagrid in indignation.

"I appreciate the thought, Hagrid, but I'm really not in the mood for a blind date!" she exclaimed, swatting at a stray hair in exasperation, her foot tapping in irritation. She didn't notice the other party who joined them, until a gentle voice spoke above the noise of the crowd.

"That was not his intention, I assure you," Albus Dumbledore murmured with a wink, picking up a peanut out of the bowl on the counter and popping it in his mouth. Hermione stared, mouth agape, at the younger version of the man who had once been a friend, and a mentor. She had to force herself not to call out his name and vault over the bar to hug him. She blushed wildly instead, looking away in embarrassment. "Your cheeks match my hair," he noted casually, flicking a peanut in to the air and catching it in his open mouth. Hermione spluttered, earning a hearty chuckle from Hagrid, who sat silently, watching the interaction with amusement.

"You certainly speak your mind," she muttered, causing Hagrid to laugh again, Dumbledore chuckling softly beside him.

"That I do," he nodded in acknowledgement, finally pushing aside the bowl of peanuts in favor of the mug of butterbeer she set before him. "Hagrid has told me a great deal about you, Miss Buchanan."

"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or disturbed," she replied instinctively, adjusting the collar of her dress nervously.

"Nothing but good things," Dumbledore hastily added, noting her uneasiness. "Maybe it would do to introduce myself before I dive in to the complexities of our meeting," he added, sticking out a pale hand, which Hermione tentatively shook. It was odd to see that hand looking healthy and untouched, a stark contrast to the mess that it had become in his effort to destroy the Horcrux in Marvolo Gaunt's ring. "Albus Dumbledore, Transfiguration Professor and Deputy Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he proclaimed with a proud tilt to his beard covered chin.

"Hermione Buchanan, waitress at The Three Broomsticks," she countered, leaving out the many other titles she'd garnered over the years. Revealing them would only cause a world of trouble, and probably earn her a one-way portkey to the Janus Thickey ward at St. Mungo's.

"A pleasure," Albus tilted his head, his eyes glittering as he released her hand. "Might I inquire as to your employment before landing in Hogsmeade and the Three Broomsticks?" he asked, quirking bushy, auburn eyebrows beneath his half-moon spectacles.

"I was a student," Hermione replied somewhat tersely, her shoulders stiffening in defense. She grabbed a rag and started wiping down the counter, refusing to look up.

"So you've completed your magical education, then," he prodded, watching in curiosity as she ground her teeth and scrubbed harder.

"No," she muttered, wondering where he was going with this line of questioning. What had she done wrong to put herself under his suspicion? She shook the thought from her head distractedly. "My parents were killed in the war and I was forced to seek employment just to subsist. I missed my final year of schooling as a result," she recited the story she had perfected over the past few months. She'd told it once to Cormac, who had looked skeptical, but accepted it with a nod and an offer of employment.

"That is troubling news, indeed," Albus replied, his warm blue eyes piercing her own. Hermione threw up her mental blocks; glad she had perfected Occlumency over the past year, for she could already feel him probing at the edges of her mind. He was silent for a while, causing Hagrid to shift uneasily in his chair and shoot Hermione a hesitant, reassuring smile. "Such a shame, really," he added after a while, his mind pulling away from hers. Hermione heaved a mental sigh of relief. "Might I ask where you were previously schooled?"

"Privately tutored," she muttered, filling Hagrid's tankard for a third time. "My mother was a witch, and she oversaw my education. My father was a muggle – worked full-time just to keep our small farm running. I helped out when I could, but I was a slave to my education most of the time." Hermione couldn't stop herself from embellishing the tale every time she looked up to see the blank expression on the future Headmaster's face. "I was traveling north to inquire about a late transfer to Hogwarts when I received news that the small village we lived in had been bombed by German troops. I lost my only family that day," she added a sniffle, forcing the tears to flow as she told what she hoped was a convincing lie.

"Cormac mentioned that you were bloodied and covered in mud when you arrived," he remarked casually, but the determined set to his jaw told her that he wanted an explanation.

"Not that it's any of your business," she snapped, suddenly angry at his nerve. Did he pry in to every newcomer's life like this? "But I was attacked by followers of Grindelwald on the outskirts of Edinburgh. I barely escaped with my life, and managed to use the last of my strength to apparate here. Cormac was kind enough to offer me a hot meal and a place to rest," she huffed, folding her arms over her chest and glaring at the man before her. Hagrid cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with the turn of events. He quickly excused himself to the men's room, leaving Hermione and Dumbledore alone. "Now that you've heard my life story, might I return to work? There are customers that need attending," Hermione snapped, circling the bar and stalking off, missing the smirk that slowly spread across Albus' face and the mischievous twinkle that once again lit his eyes.

* * *

"Bloody, menacing, old codger," Hermione muttered that night as she stalked about her small room, throwing things here and there as she searched for the book she had finally purchased during her second trip to Knockturn Alley. It was the best she could find on time travel and paradoxes, though it wasn't really telling her anything she didn't already know. "Who does he think he is? This isn't the Spanish Inquisition!" Her voice rose with every word, until she was practically screeching in indignation.

The soft hooting of a snowy owl that reminded her eerily of Hedwig sounded at her open window, snapping Hermione out of her tirade. Confused, she furrowed her eyebrows and bent low to look at the tiny name scrawled across the envelope.

'_Hermione'_ it simply read, the script undistinguishable. Curious, she idly stroked the owl as she untied the white ribbon holding the parchment to its leg. Before it could fall to the ground, she reached out a hand and caught the ivory envelope in her hand.

A jolt had her reeling back, an uncomfortable tugging behind her navel filling her with dread. It seemed like she was pulled for ages, before she finally landed with a soft thud on the cold grass, the light of the moon the only illumination trickling through the dense canopy of the forest she now found herself in.

Scrambling to her feet, she fought with the folds of flowing fabric for her wand, her eyes darting all around, looking for any sign of danger. The cool tip of a wand at the base of her neck stopped Hermione in her tracks, her back going rigid, her body as tight as a coil. She felt the ghost of a breath on her neck, sending shivers down her back and eliciting a moan of dread from her dry lips. Her breath hitched in her throat as a warm body molded perfectly to her back, the tip of the wand digging almost painfully in to her flesh.

"So we meet again…"

* * *

**AN:** Yes, I am evil and I revel in cliffhangers. And I'm exhausted, so I don't really have much to say. Oh, except that if Tom seems OOC, remember that most of what he know of him is biased observation/opinion on behalf of Dumbledore; therefore, there is leniency where his characterization and history is concerned. This includes the characterization of his father. And. Yeah. Goodnight now. 


	6. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer: **I'm far too exhausted to even bother claiming to own anything. We all know it belongs to J.K. Rowling.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **I bet you all love me right now. There is a little over three days left until DH is released and I'm posting another chapter. Wait! What's this? Updating two days in a row? WE LOVE YOU JOY! I'm actually forgoing much needed sleep to get this chapter written. I have to leave at 3am to bring my brother to the airport, and then I'm only getting a few hours of sleep between when I get back and when I have to wake up again to go baby-sit for my sister. I could be getting sleep now, but I can't leave you all hanging like that! Well, I could… but I won't! Thanks, as always, to my lovely reviewers. This chapter is a special birthday present to **Right or Ryn**.

P.S. This chapter is quite dark. You've been warned.

* * *

_**Chapter Five**_

"Snape," Hermione hissed through clenched teeth, feeling an arm snake around her neck and jerk back until she could barely breath. She struggled against his hold, to no avail.

"Granger," he hissed back, his putrid breath leaving a lingering odor of garlic in the air, causing her to gag.

"How the hell did you get here?" she choked out, clawing at his arm with sharp nails. Hermione smirked in triumph as she felt the trickle of blood beneath her fingers and heard his sharp intake of breath.

"Same way you did," he sneered, his wand digging further in to her neck and eliciting a gasp of pain from Hermione. "Splendid invention, the time-turner. Who knew a well-placed Avada would have this effect?" he added almost casually.

Hermione's mind worked frantically, mulling over the turn of events while trying to formulate a plan to get her out of this mess. Snape was clever – as clever as they came. Whatever she did would have to be unexpected enough for him to falter and let his guard down – a single second could mean the difference between life and death.

"It's been over two months since I arrived. Why now? Why bide your time?" she questioned, unable to hold back her curiosity. "Why not kill me right away, that first night?" Hermione also hoped that her line of questioning might unbalance him enough for a second of distraction.

"You always had to know everything, didn't you?" he growled, his arm tightening despite her constant clawing. She could feel the gentle swish of his cloak against her bare legs, the rise and fall of his lean chest as he pressed his body closer to hers. Hermione couldn't stop the shudder that ran through her body when she felt something hard shift against the cleft of her buttocks. "Allow me to enlighten you," he nearly purred, cackling as Hermione suddenly doubled over and retched, emptying the contents of her stomach on the forest floor.

"You disgust me, you vile, greasy pervert," she spat as he circled his hips again. She renewed her efforts, kicking, biting, clawing and gnawing. She was vaguely surprised that he hadn't put her in a full body-bind yet, but she suspected that he got a rise out of her struggles.

"Ten points from Gryffindor," he hissed, jerking her upright, causing her head to snap back painfully.

_'Perfect,'_ she thought to herself, allowing her eyes to droop shut and body to go limp. The suddenness of her "fainting" caused Snape to lose his grip, and Hermione felt herself slump to the ground, leaves and twigs crunching beneath her weight. He must have been shocked, for he stood unmoving at her feet. _'Opportunity number two,'_ Hermione thought with a thrill of triumph. Kicking out her feet, she lashed out, catching Snape behind his knees and driving him to the ground. In the blink of an eye, she was on top of him, her own wand jabbing painfully in to his jugular.

"You were saying?" she murmured darkly, purposefully driving her knee in to his groin. He howled in pain, unconsciously releasing the wand that had been clutched in his bony hand. She grinned maliciously as she plucked the long stick of wood off the ground and snapped it in two. Their eyes met in that instant, and for the first time ever, Hermione saw fear in Snape's obsidian eyes. She smirked, quirking her eyebrows as if to say _'Well?'_

"The force of the time wave knocked me unconscious," he spat, his voice dripping with disdain as he glared at her. "When I came to, I found myself malnourished, badly wounded, and reeking of body odor –"

"Hardly anything new," Hermione snorted. Snape ground his teeth and struggled against her. With a casual flick of her wand, she conjured an unbreakable rope that wound itself around his arms and legs. With his every struggle, the rope grew tighter, until his hands were an unhealthy shade of purple and he was gasping for breath. "Continue," she instructed as she moved gracefully to her feet, looking down at his prone form in satisfaction.

"I was in a rundown cottage in the middle of the woods, accompanied by a lump resembling a man who huddled in the corner hissing at a collection of garden snakes a vast majority of the time," he rasped, his eyes bulging as the pain intensified.

"Morfin Gaunt," she muttered knowingly.

"It took me nearly a month to recover, and the entire time the man ignored me save to bring bits of stale food and dirty water, or shove one of his pets in my face. It was only when I was finally able to move around that I learned his identity and deduced that I'd been thrown back in time." His voice was barely above a whisper now, and if he had been any less dangerous, she would have loosened his bindings. But she knew better than that. "It was another week before I fully remembered the events of that night, and realized that the impact of the killing curse on your time-turner was to blame. When I saw you running toward the Riddle house a few nights back, my suspicions were confirmed."

"And you decided to finish what you started?" she guessed with furrowed eyebrows, folding her arms over her chest to stave off the encroaching cold. Snape snorted and averted his empty gaze, staring blankly at the base of a nearby tree.

"Hardly," he muttered. "I was going to leave well enough alone until I realized your appearance at the Riddle's that night had changed the future as we know it."

"For the better!" she defended tersely, kicking him in his side and causing him to flinch, which in turn caused the ropes to tighten drastically. She jumped back, eyes widening as he suddenly gasped for air, his body automatically struggling and exacerbating the situation. Hermione's hands flew to her mouth as she watched in horror as Snape's body convulsed, his brain begging for oxygen, his limbs begging for blood flow. When neither came, he went still, his mouth open wide in an eternal scream.

Hermione stumbled backwards, tripping over fallen branches in her haste to get away from the body. She had to fight the urge to vomit several times, and the tears that sprung to her eyes clouded her vision. Turning, she ran fast and hard, unknowing of where she was going or where she'd end up. She just knew she had to get away. Far away. When breathing became difficult and her legs began to burn, she slowed, dragging her feet through the underbrush, fighting to stay upright. When she wandered in to a clearing and the glow of a village in the distance illuminated her surroundings, Hermione collapsed in a heap.

"What have I done?"

* * *

Tom stood before a window in his new room, staring at the night beyond. The sky had opened up and a deluge of rain had descended upon the sleepy town of Little Hangleton, leaving his view blurry. He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, but his thoughts had been full of the beguiling young woman who had invaded his life. He couldn't figure her out, and that fact disturbed him greatly. Tom knew that he would eventually have to pay her a visit, but he wanted to gather further intelligence first. He had just sent out his owl, Napoleon, to one of his associates with instructions to investigate Hermione No-Last-Name and find every scrap of information on her that was available. Abraxas Malfoy was a prat at the best of times, but he was from a wealthy family with a lot of connections. If anyone could find the information he sought, it would be Malfoy.

"Dinner's ready!" a matronly voice sounded from the first floor, startling Tom out of his thoughts. For a brief moment he was confused as to where he was. But then the memories came flooding back, and with an unfamiliar jolt of emotion he realized that the voice must belong to his grandmother. Blinking rapidly, he stared at his open door, hesitant to step through it and descend the stairs. He had yet to meet the old woman, or the old man that was his grandfather, and he had to admit that he was oddly anxious. He hadn't fell this thrill of emotion since that first long train ride to Hogwarts. Steeling himself, Tom straightened and stalked quickly out of the room, moving down the stairs with feather-light steps that years of sneaking around the orphanage had taught.

"Brace yourself, boy," a rough voice sounded from behind as he stepped in to the entry hall. He turned to look at the old man who was shuffling across the polished wooden floor, a lit cigar dangling from his thin, bony fingers. "She's a bit… excited to meet you," he added, sticking the cigar in his mouth and patting Tom on the shoulder in a gesture of good luck, a rough chuckle escaping his lips as he pushed through the swinging door in to the dining room. Tom stopped, staring as the door swung back and forth, once again hesitant to proceed.

He was saved the trouble when a vibrant, plump older woman with graying hair burst through the door and threw herself on him. Shocked, Tom stood unmoving as the woman wrapped her arms around his torso, squeezing tight and letting out a happy sob.

"Give him some air, Mother," another voice sounded in the room, which Tom recognized as his father's. The woman released him, stepping back and looking at him with a broad smile, her hands on her hips.

"Strapping young lad," she said proudly, beaming. "Just like your father at that age," she added with a wink toward the man who stood behind him. Tom grimaced and looked away, for once feeling uncomfortable under the praise he once thrived on. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes begging for help. The senior Tom Riddle smirked, an uncannily familiar gesture, and moved forward, clasping his son's shoulder.

"You get used to her after a while," he spoke in an overly loud conspiratorial tone, earning a swift whack in the arm. He chuckled, shooing his mother in to the room beyond. She left with some complaint, shooting teary smiles over her shoulder every other second, until finally she was out of sight. "Come then. Let us get this dinner over with, eh?" he muttered, steering Tom toward the door and pushing him in to the dining area. The heavenly smell of roast beef assaulted his senses, reminding him of the feasts that Hogwarts had to offer. At the orphanage, he was lucky to receive any kind of meat more than once a month, and usually had to settle on some flavor of gruel or porridge.

With a shock of horror, Tom realized his mouth was agape and he was very nearly close to drooling. He schooled his features quickly, quietly approaching the table and sitting in the chair across from the one his father had already settled in to. He bowed his head respectfully when they began to pray, familiar with the tradition from his childhood. He muttered a soft "Amen," and sat unmoving while the adults served heaping plates of food for themselves. Only when they were tucking in to their meal did he reach forward and neatly serve himself a small portion, arranging each dish with fanatical care on his plate. When everything was in order, he picked up his fork and looked up.

Only to realize that he was being gaped at by three very amused Riddles.

"What?" he muttered, his body once again going rigid in defense. "I like order," he supplied at their raised eyebrows. A round of chuckles met his ears, turning the tips of them bright red in embarrassment. That was until he looked across the table and realized why, exactly, they were all laughing. His father's plate was an exact replica of his own culinary organization. When he realized this, Tom did something he hadn't done in years, if ever.

He laughed. Not just a soft chuckle, either, but a full-blown guffaw that set the rest of the table off in hysterics.

A loud bang from the back door quieted the room instantly, and Tom couldn't stop himself from jumping up and whipping his wand out in defense. They all waited with baited breath, unsure of what to do.

"Help!" a hearty, male voice reverberated throughout the house.

"Frank!" Tom Sr. exclaimed in recognition, jumping out of his seat and rushing through the door that lead to the kitchen.

"The groundskeeper," his grandmother supplied softly at his confused look. He nodded briskly in understanding; all humor drained from his eyes as he circled the table and followed his grandparents through the door his father had just exited through. The sight that met their eyes had them all reeling back in shock.

On the floor, her clothes plastered to her body with mud and water, hair clinging to her pale face, lay an unconscious Hermione No-Last-Name.

"I was in the fields tying down the stalks against wind damage when I found her at the edge of the property," a twenty-something man spoke urgently, and Tom guessed that this was Frank, the groundskeeper. "I wasn't sure what to do…" he trailed off, his shoulders slumping.

"You were right in bringing her here, Frank," his grandmother murmured reassuringly as she rummaged through cabinets. "Go fetch Doctor Milton," she instructed as she reemerged from one of the cabinets holding a box that had gauze, tape, and number of other first aid supplies protruding from beneath a haphazardly placed cover. Tom watched in fascination as his grandmother set about cleaning the few cuts on her face, while his grandfather shuffled back in to the room – _'When had he disappeared?'_ – with a pile of towels and a thick, warm blanket in his arms.

"I know her," he whispered at last, earning shocked looks from the other occupants of the room. If he had been skilled in Legilimency, he would have realized that one other person also recognized the unconscious woman on the floor, and two others had a spot of foggy memory that was the result of obvious memory tampering. But he hadn't gotten that far in his self-training, so this knowledge went unknown. "She's one of my kind. A witch," Tom added, squirming under their penetrating gazes.

"What in God's name was she doing in Little Hangleton?" his grandfather muttered as he handed his wife his armload. The men all had the good sense to look away as the older woman quickly shed the sopping dress of the young woman and dried her body with the towels, massaging her limbs to get the blood flowing before wrapping her tightly in the blanket.

"Looking for me, I expect," Tom answered truthfully, his mind reeling with the implication. What _was_ she doing in Little Hangleton? His need for answers intensified, and he sent a silent plea out to Malfoy to work fast with his investigation. With his thoughts turned inward, Tom didn't see the confused and curious look his father had levered on him.

"Let's get her in a bed," a gentle voice coaxed him out of his thoughts. He beat his father across the room, and soon found himself holding the mysterious newcomer in his arms, carrying her through room after room and up the stairs, turning corners until they came to a stop outside a door in the same hall that his own room was located. Silently, he entered, gently laying her on the bed and stepping away with an odd look on his face. "She'll be all right, I'm sure. Doctor Milton will know what to do," his grandmother spoke reassuringly, patting him softly on the back before she strode over to the bed and sat on the edge, fussing with the girl's coverings and feeling her forehead for a fever. Tom watched all of this in silence, his thoughts at war with each other.

One part of him was angry at her intrusion in his life, while the other couldn't fight away the sudden concern he felt at seeing her so weak and helpless. Even with all the cowering and fright that she'd displayed the few times they'd met, she had always seemed so _strong._

A middle-aged man with thinning blonde hair suddenly bustled in to the room, a black bag clutched in his pudgy fist and a rain cloak thrown hastily over his bulky frame. Doctor Milton, Tom surmised, as he watched the man place his bag at the bedside and withdraw a stethoscope.

"Come, son," his father spoke from behind. "Let us leave Doctor Milton to his work," he instructed with a gentle, yet firm voice. Tom nodded, his jaw stiff as he fought off the emotions threatening to bubble forth. He brushed past the two older men who stood outside the now-closed door and stalked down the hall to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him in frustration.

"This is ridiculous!" he muttered heatedly, throwing himself in to the chair before his desk and resisting the urge to send the items atop scattering. "I barely know her! Why should I be feeling concern – feeling _anything_ – for her? It doesn't make sense! I don't feel. I don't!" he argued with himself, pounding his fist on the hard wood surface and sending a bottle of green ink toppling over the edge, bouncing harmlessly off the wood floor and rolling to a stop at the foot of the hearth. He idly congratulated himself on the successful use of the anti-shatter spell, before his thoughts returned to the woman down the hall.

He sat there, staring at the wall, his thoughts nowhere and everywhere all at once, for what seemed like hours. When the rain lessened to a trickle, then stopped all together, he didn't move. When the sun began peeking out from behind the trees of the nearby forest and coated the land in the hazy light of dawn, he sat still. It wasn't until the soft creak of his bedroom door opening broke through the self-imposed silence did Tom move.

"She's awake, if you'd like to see her," his grandmother's gentle voice murmured. Tom turned, his face blank as he nodded curtly. He strode slowly out of the room, following her slightly hunched back to the room where he had brought Hermione the evening before. Unconsciously, Tom took a deep breath, steeling himself before he stepped in to the brightly lit room.

Laying demurely in the center of the full-sized bed, clothed in a light, cotton nightgown and covered with a thin, white blanket, was the woman who had occupied his thoughts for the entire night. Her face was no longer pale, and her chocolate locks lay in loose, glossy curls about her head like a autumn nymph halo. She'd been laughing softly at something her father was saying when he entered, but at the sound of his soft footfalls on the hardwood floor, she turned her head.

And smiled brightly.

"Good morning, Tom," she said cheekily. "You have a lovely family," she added with a wink. He was taken aback – not by her greeting or praise of his newly acquired family, but the overwhelming anguish that swam in her eyes, hiding behind a mischievous twinkle. Her smile vanished as his frown grew. "Not happy to see me, I take it?" she pouted playfully, jutting out her bottom lip and making his father chuckle softly. Tom shook his head, clenching and unclenching his hands as his own, stormy gray eyes became lost in a sea of turbulent hazel. After an agonizing amount of time, he finally said the only thing that came to his mind.

"What the hell do you want from me?"

* * *

**AN: **I do live to shock you all. That's all I have to say about that. Review, my pretties! 


	7. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer: **I'm running out of witty things to say here. J.K. owns it all, I only like to play with it.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **Another attempt at posting before DH is released. Are you excited? I'm excited. About the release, not the update, that is. Who knows – maybe you're excited about both. I'm just tired. So, the last chapter didn't really seem to thrill people. I must be losing my touch. Fun. Ah well. At this point, my fingers are in charge because my brain is too exhausted to work properly. Hopefully they'll give you a chapter you'll like. This chapter will definitely be the last update before DH – I'm going to start avoiding the internet and television to avoid unwanted spoilers until after I finish the book. Yeah. As always, a big thanks to my reviewers. I love you guys.

* * *

**_Chapter Six_**

Hermione was shocked by the bluntness of his question. Silence descended upon the room, the only sound was the creaking of the wooden chair Tom. Sr. sat in as he shifted uncomfortably in the oppressive atmosphere. She opened her mouth to speak, closing it when no words came out. How did you answer a question like that when the truth would surely get you killed? Turning her gaze away from the stoic teen, she nervously smoothed the already perfectly pressed sheet covering her thin frame.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," she murmured at last, refusing to meet his gaze. Hermione wasn't sure if Tom had mastered Legilimency yet, but she carefully occluded her mind just in case. Peeking through her curtain of curly, brown tresses, Hermione saw as Tom narrowed his eyes and folded his arms over his chest.

"I'll admit that the bookstore was a complete coincidence, but the orphanage? And now here?" he spoke, his voice tinged with a mixture of annoyance, anger, and a slight hint of curiosity. "You're following me, and I want to know why!" Now his bare foot began tapping on the floor, filling the room with a soft _'pat, pat, pat.'_ Hermione was absurdly aware of the fact that seeing the young Voldemort _shoeless_ was oddly amusing. She had to bite her tongue to keep back the soft laugh bubbling on her lips. Obviously, he noticed her badly concealed amusement, for his eyes darkened considerably, and his whole body went rigid with pent-up anger. "You find all of this amusing, do you?"

"I'll just go check on lunch then," Tom Sr. spoke suddenly, pushing from his chair and hurrying from the room. He was many things, but a blind fool wasn't one of them. He had no intention of getting stuck in the middle of a wand fight, or whatever magical people called it. No – he would let the two young people work out their problems, and if he was lucky, his family home would still be intact at the end.

The door closed with a soft click behind the older man, leaving the two teens alone. Fear flashed through Hermione's eyes, but she mustered all of her Gryffindor courage and shoved it aside, sitting up straighter on the bed.

"I felt like a little fresh air, so I went for a walk. It truly _was _a coincidence that I ended up outside of that orphanage," she skillfully lied, her chin tilting up in defiance. "How was I to know that was where you lived? In the bookstore, you'd mentioned a visit to your father, so I assumed you lived elsewhere with your mother. While it is somewhat scandalous, it's not entirely unheard of," she reasoned, inflecting her voice in all the right spots to make her story sound convincing.

"My mother is dead." He spit out the word 'mother' like a vile tasting potion that burned his tongue. Hermione made her eyes go wide, and worried her bottom lip, picking at the crisp, white linens.

"Oh," she whispered, silently praising her acting skills, "I'm so sorry." Then, as if to herself, though she knew Tom could hear, she murmured, "That would explain the orphanage." She saw Tom shrug off the last sentence with a tick of his head.

"Don't be sorry," he muttered darkly, averting his gaze to the floor. "I'm not." Hermione had the good sense to look scandalized.

"That's a terrible thing to say!" she gasped, biting her cheeks to keep from laughing, and staring steadfastly at her lap so that he wouldn't see the hint of amusement hidden behind the carefully crafted illusion of shock.

"You didn't know my mother," he spat, uncrossing his arms and shoving his hands in his pockets.

_'Neither did you,'_ Hermione thought silently, watching as Tom's shoulders slumped. A sign of weakness, if she ever saw one, and he must have realized it, because his shoulders went rigid again almost immediately and his head snapped up, his glare upon her renewed.

"And what of your appearance here? In Little Hangleton?" he sneered, stalking closer to the bed and pinning her with angry gray eyes. "Just out for a little nighttime stroll?" Hermione's breath hitched in her throat, and the sudden flare of desire that his nearness invoked overwhelmed her. She cursed her traitorous body and tried to fight the blush that crept up her body. When she realized that Tom had noticed her flustered state, she decided to use it to her advantage.

"I – I – I," she stuttered, finally allowing the blush to claim her body, turning her face beat red as she looked away coyly. "I _was _coming to see you," she whispered at last, the lie coming easily. It should have worried her, this new affinity for telling untruths, but it didn't. Tom couldn't know about Snape – couldn't know that she killed a man.

Sure, she'd killed in the heat of battle. But war was war. This thing with Snape… That had turned personal. She could have released the bindings before they'd strangled him to death, but she hadn't. She'd froze, watching as the last ounce of life had drained from him, and she couldn't deny the utter glee that had shot through her body. That was what had sent her running in the first place. The fact that someone's death had _thrilled _her. That was what warred on her conscious now. She wasn't just a veteran of war. She was a _murderer._

Just like Tom.

"Why?" his voice broke through her memories, startling her in to looking up. He looked triumphant at her admittance, as if all his paranoia was suddenly justified.

_'If he only knew,'_ Hermione thought with an inward snort.

"What do you want with me?" he pressed when she didn't answer, taking the last few steps toward the bed and towering over her menacingly. Hermione shrunk in to the mattress in feigned fright – not truly frightened of the young man before her for the first time ever, she realized with a start. She mentally shook it off, schooling her features until she was sure she looked bashful.

"You're very handsome," she answered in a hoarse whisper. This jolted him a step back, his eyebrows flying in to his hairline with surprise. "And you intrigue me."

Tom gaped like a fish for some time, not knowing how to respond. Her words were the last thing he'd ever expected. Gathering intelligence for blackmail, a spy set on him by Dumbledore, a power hungry witch who'd heard of his 'organization' and wanted in – those were answers he'd expected. But not this.

"I have to admit that I've always been attracted to the bad boys," Hermione continued, her voice taking on the studious tone she always used when discussing books, or homework, or even the weather. Tom's mouth closed with a snap, his eyes going large as he stumbled back and fell in to the chair beside her bed. "And you certainly seem like a bad boy," she added with a cheeky wink. She leaned forward, resting on her elbows as she peered at him with a mischievous smile. "Tell me, Tom… Are you a bad boy?" she whispered seductively. Hermione couldn't hold back the delighted giggles when his face suddenly morphed in to a look of abject horror.

"Here dear, I've washed and mended your dress," Tom's grandmother said as she bustled in the door, a neatly folded garment in her arms. Hermione was reminded eerily of Molly Weasley – granted, an older version of Molly Weasley, but just like the Weasley matriarch none-the-less. When she finally looked up, she was startled by the look on Tom's face. She looked back and forth between Hermione and her grandson multiple times, and as a blush slowly crept up the young man's cheeks, a knowing smile crept across her face. She silently placed the dress on the end of the bed, then backed toward the door, the smile still plastered across her face.

"I'll just go check on lunch then, shall I?" she shot Hermione a wink, who wiggled her eyebrows in return, then shut the door behind her. They both heard the older woman's laughter as she disappeared down the hall.

"Lunch must be a complicated affair if both your father and your grandmother insist on checking on it," Hermione commented with a playful grin. Tom forced his features to neutrality and averted his gaze, unsure of what to say. Hermione took in his unease with curious eyes. She was about to apologize for her behavior – this was the forties after all, and most woman didn't act the way she just had – but a snowy white owl that reminded her of Hedwig swooped in the open window and landed on his shoulder.

"Greetings, Napoleon," Tom murmured, glad for the distraction. He unfastened the letter from his owl's outstretched leg, unnoticing of Hermione's involuntary flinch, and read the curling script on the envelope. _'Malfoy,'_ Tom thought with an inward sigh of relief. Finally, some answers. "If you'll excuse me," he muttered, refusing to meet Hermione's gaze lest he start _blushing_ again.

Tom nearly ran out of the room, glad to be away from the once again giggling woman. He slammed his bedroom door behind him and ripped open the letter, gazing at it with hungry eyes.

_My Lord,_

_I received your correspondence and set to work immediately. I contacted an associate in Hogsmeade who was able to supply a last name for the waitress of The Three Broomsticks that has caught your ire. Apparently, she goes by Hermione Buchanan. She arrived at the end of April, and no one seems to know much else of her life before. Another associate within the Ministry searched records available from all over the world with the information I supplied, and turned up nothing. Hermione Buchanan doesn't exist. Perhaps she never did. I believe she may be lying to everyone, about her name at least, though I'm almost positive it is more than that. Tread carefully around this one. I will continue my investigations, but I fear there is not much left to learn. _

_Your humble servant,_

_Abraxas Malfoy_

Closing the letter, Tom sighed heavily, his brows furrowing as he sunk on to his bed. The mystery just kept getting bigger, and it was frustrating that no answers seemed to be forthcoming. If this woman was lying about her name, what else was she capable of lying about? Why was she in Little Hangleton? Was it possible that she spoke the truth, or was it just another cleverly crafted lie designed to throw him off her scent.

What was she hiding?

Who was Hermione Buchanan?

* * *

The second Tom left the room, Hermione let out the laugh she'd been holding. The look on his face, coupled with his grandmother's reaction, and the mere fact that this whole day was just plain crazy, was enough to send anyone in to a bout of insane laughter. It didn't last long, though. She could already feel most of her strength returning, so with the door closed, she climbed out of bed and quickly changed back in to the dress she'd been wearing the night before. It was spotless, and the few tears she'd received in the confrontation were neatly mended with matching string.

She didn't know what was in the letter Tom had received, but by the look on his face, it was something important and he'd been waiting for it for a while. She didn't want to stick around to find out what, however. Having barely escaped the ultimate confrontation his questions and her lies were leading to, Hermione didn't want to be present for the inevitable second round.

Her wand lay on the bedside table, almost reverently placed atop a swath of fabric. Perhaps whoever had placed it there was awed by its power. Perhaps they feared it. Shaking the thoughts from her head, Hermione snatched it up, inspecting it quickly for any imperfections that might affect its use. When she found none, she sheathed it in her belt and crossed the room to where her saddle shoes sat, newly cleaned and polished. She slipped them on, not bothering with the socks sitting on top of the dresser. She knew someone would return soon, and she had no intention of being around when they did. She couldn't handle any more questions. Not right now.

The sound of the floor creaking drew her attention to the door. Hastily, she withdrew her wand again and concentrated on her room at the Three Broomsticks. Destination. Determination. Deliberation. Turning on her heel, she barely caught a glimpse of Tom's angry face as she disapparated.

She arrived with a soft pop, emitting a relieved sigh. Stretching, she yawned in to her hands and attempted to scrub away the bone deep exhaustion that was more mental than physical.

"Ahem," a soft sound filled the silent room. Hermione turned on the spot, wand whipped out and eyes large as she sought out the intruder. There, sitting in a chair by the door, was none other than Albus Dumbledore, the ever-present twinkle alighting his azure eyes.

"Merlin, you scared me!" she exclaimed, hand over her heart as she fought to calm her nerves. She was afraid that Tom had followed her, though to the best of her knowledge, he'd never seen her room. Still, her paranoia ran deep, especially since the look on his face right before she disappeared left little to the imagination. He was pissed. Hermione shook the memory from her mind and leveled an exasperated glare on the middle-aged professor sitting calmly with his hands folded on his lap. "What are you doing here? In my room?"

"My apologies, Miss Buchanan," he murmured through a soft smirk. "I came to speak with you about your education, and Mister Cormac was kind enough to let me in."

"And the fact that I was obviously not here did not dissuade you?" she asked with arched eyebrows, folding her arms over her chest and tapping her foot impatiently. Her actions only caused Dumbledore's amused smirk to grow, which infuriated her further. This younger version of her mentor was… annoying!

"Not at all," he replied, his eyes twinkling even more, if that was at all possible. Hermione rolled her eyes and circled her bed to sit on the edge facing him. "I had a feeling you'd be returning shortly."

"Did you now?" she muttered under her breath.

"Indeed," he replied, pushing to his feet. He crossed the small room and sat beside her on the bed. Hermione didn't move away, but turned her head to gaze up at him expectantly. "You mentioned in our previous meeting that you were unable to complete your final year of schooling." He said it as a fact, not a question. Hermione merely nodded in response. He seemed to ponder this for a second, before he spoke again. "There is a scholarship at Hogwarts designed for students in your situation."

Hermione knew this from Harry's retelling of the memories he'd viewed in Dumbledore's pensieve during his "lessons" on Voldemort. She wasn't supposed to know this, though, so she kept silent and adopted a look of interested surprise.

"I have spoken at length with Headmaster Dippet," he continued, his eyes never leaving hers. Almost too late, Hermione occluded her mind. Once again, she felt the subtle prodding at the edges of her conscious, seeking a crack in her heavily fortified mental wall. "If you would like, we can offer you a place at Hogwarts for your final year – so long as you pass standard placement testing," he spoke evenly, all the while his mind probing at hers. Hermione did her best to look like she wasn't concentrating on anything. With any luck, he'd believe she was a natural Occlumens, and leave it at that.

Not likely, but it was nice to hope.

Hermione beamed at Dumbledore and clasped her hands in excitement.

"That would be…amazing!" she exclaimed, hating how fake her voice sounded. It was true that she hadn't completed her final year – she and Ron had joined Harry on his quest for the Horcruxes instead – but she was of legal age and was already well versed in the seventh year curriculum. She hadn't intended on returning when her time could be better spent helping others and reforming the wizarding world, but now that she was in 1943, with absolutely no prospects other than that of a lowly waitress, she was beginning to rethink the idea.

That, plus it would get her closer to Tom Riddle. Why that suddenly became priority number one in her head was a mystery to Hermione, but she wasn't going to dwell on it.

"Excellent!" he clapped his hands together in glee and stood. "There is a round of testing taking place on the first of August, at noon. There will be a few others joining you – orphans of the war in western Europe, you see." Hermione nodded solemnly, wondering which war he was referring to. World War Two, or the fight against Grindelwald? Probably both, she silently mused. "Should you garner an acceptable score, you will be sent an allowance to buy books, supplies, and school robes. Term begins on the first of September, at which time you will be sorted in to one of the four houses: Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff."

Hermione nodded at all this, pretending to look as if she was absorbing all of this information for the first time. It would be hard to act as if she'd never stepped foot in the majestic castle that she'd called home for six years – but for this chance, she would manage it.

"Further information can be found in this book," Dumbledore said, pulling a small square out of a pocket in his glaringly scarlet robes and enlarged it with his wand. Hermione smirked inwardly at the sight of _Hogwarts: A History_, one of her favorite books. She had read her own copy so many times that she constantly needed to use a binding charm on the spine to keep it from falling apart. It would be interesting to read this edition, at the very least. Hermione took the book, running a hand over the well-worn leather cover, and smiled.

"Thank you, sir," she murmured, giving him a soft smile.

"You are most welcome, Miss Buchanan," he replied with a grin. "Now, I must be returning to Hogwarts, but I trust I will see you on the first?"

"Of course," Hermione nodded emphatically, her problem-solving mind already eagerly devouring this new turn of events.

"Great!" he strode to the door and pulled it open with a whoosh. "I bid you a good day."

"And you as well," she replied in kind, once again feeling the closeness to the man whom she had come to think of as a friend. Dumbledore shot her a wink, causing her to chuckle, then exited through the door, pulling it closed and leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Hermione returned her gaze to the book, her hand resting over the word "Hogwarts." The image of an enraged Tom clad to the nines on Slytherin robes and the forties equivalent to the school uniform rose in Hermione's mind. A saucy smirk slowly spread across her face.

"Ready or not, here I come."

* * *

**AN: **And there you have that. Events will begin moving along more swiftly in the next few chapters, for those of you who are eager to see Tom and Hermione's relationship expand past ambivalence. I have no intentions of rushing them in to romance, but they were soon sail the platonic ship with equal eagerness. I shall see you all after I finish DH! Happy reading! 


	8. Chapter Seven

**Disclaimer: **Maybe since she's done, J.K. will let me have it? No? I didn't think so. Ah well, I must be content to merely play in her world.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **Deathly Hallows was absolutely brilliant, in my opinion. I laughed, I cried, I grieved, and I celebrated – it was all there, and much, much more. I will say no more at this time, for those of you who have yet to read/finish it. Now on to the subject of my story. I haven't the faintest idea what I'm doing. Yep. It's as simple as that. So, let us just go with the flow then, eh? My apologies for taking forever to update. I hit a massive writer's block – the effect of depression caused by the conclusion of the Harry Potter series. Ah well – Harry will live on as long as there are fans to write fanfiction! Like me! So, I must write! And… yeah. Love to all my reviewers.

* * *

**_Chapter Seven_**

_Describe, in detail, the twelve uses of dragon's blood. _Hermione stared blankly at the question before her, the first of many scrawled across the long sheet of parchment. Worrying her bottom lip, she tapped the tip of her quill against the rim of the inkwell and pondered the question. She knew the answer of course; had known it since second year when she'd borrowed a fifth year Gryffindor's potions book for a bit of light reading during her hospital stay after the polyjuice mishap. No, the problem she faced now had nothing to do with lack of knowledge, but more to do with an internal battle that had been raging for the past week.

To play dumb, or not to – that is the question. Hermione snorted internally at her deplorable adaptation of Shakespeare. Playing dumb would very probably make Riddle underestimate her, which might prove to be the advantage needed. But doing so went against everything she'd strived so hard to achieve. It would be physically painful to play dumb. Hermione was a woman who thrived on knowledge. Self-deprivation of the very thing that had defined her life would be masochism at its worst.

She'd been having this same internal argument for days, and even now, sitting at a solitary table in the Great Hall with only Professor Dumbledore and three other transfers as company, Hermione still hadn't come to a decision.

Hermione looked up and heaved a great sigh. Dumbledore shot her a raised eyebrow, his eyes dancing with slight amusement. She offered a hesitant smile before returning her gaze to the entrance exam. It was a while before she finally made a decision, and she was sure the other three potential transfers were already at least halfway done with their exams.

"Knowledge is power," she whispered, a determined light gleaming in her eyes. Perhaps playing dumb wasn't the best course after all, she thought silently. Maybe her particular type of genius would unsettle young Voldemort more than her apparent lack of any knowledge. Everything she knew – from books and from the future – could be her greatest ally.

Nodding with finality, Hermione straightened in her seat and dipped her quill in the ink. Bending over the test, she put nib to parchment and delved in with a fervor that shocked even herself. Hermione smirked.

Whoever graded these exams wouldn't know what hit them.

* * *

Tom stared at the gleaming silver badge he held in his hand with a smug look of triumph. The letter that had accompanied the badge proclaimed that he had been appointed Head Boy for the coming school year – a feat he had been working toward since he'd first entered Hogwarts. The position would grant him even more power and freedom than his prefect status already did. Power that could be used to sway others to his will.

A devious smirk spread across his pale features as spider-thin fingers danced upon the shining metal.

"Tommy dear, I've got your wash," Marion proclaimed as she stepped through the open door and placed a pile of clean laundry on top of his bed. Tom glared at his grandmother, his smirk fading to be replaced with an irritated scowl.

"How many times do I have to ask you to not call me Tommy?" he muttered as he neatly refolded the letter and set it atop the desk next to the supply list that had concluded the thick packet from Hogwarts that he'd received that morning. The bad disappeared in to his pocket for safekeeping, a brief flash of light on the wall the only hint that he had been holding anything. Marion raised her eyebrows and tutted in exasperation. "Or _dear_," he sneered, his lips twisting in disgust around the term of endearment. This time, the older woman rolled her eyes and turned away.

"And how many times must I tell you that you have no choice in the matter? As your grandmother, I am appointed special privileges that extend to excessive doting and ridiculous pet names," she said with an air of authority that was almost absurd in how _final_ it sounded. Tom snapped his mouth shut, cutting off the acerbic reply dancing on his lips as she rounded on him, hands on her hips and foot tapping against the hardwood floor. "You'll deal with it, or you'll make your own meals for the remainder of summer hols. Understood?"

Tom was silent a moment as he thought of the mouth-watering meals his grandmother served the three men in her life every night, and then of his own deplorable cooking. Grinding his teeth, he turned his back on the older woman and set about hanging the freshly laundered clothes.

"Yes Ma'am," he muttered, hating every second of it. His back rigid, he ignored Marion as she moved about, tidying the already meticulously neat room. The two said no more, working together in silence for a few minutes before he heard the soft thump of something landing on his desk and the hurried shuffling as Marion swept out of the room in silence. Tom furrowed his eyebrows and circled the bed until he was standing before his desk.

Sitting atop his desk, next to the opened supply list, was a velvet drawstring satchel. Curiosity beat out the anger that had briefly flared at the knowledge that his grandmother had been going through his things right under his nose, and with an odd sort of hesitancy, he picked up the satchel and loosened the strings. Tipping it upside down, he watched with growing awe as coin after coin fell with a musical tinkling on the wooden surface. Tom reached out and picked up one of the coins, examining it with wary eyes.

The British pound he held in his hand winked invitingly in the summer light seeping through the open windows, begging him to be spent. Blinkingly rapidly, he dropped it back in to the satchel which was soon joined by its comrades as he counted coin after coin. When he was finished, fifty coins lay nestled in the satchel, ready to be used on whatever Tom fancied. He hadn't ever possessed that much Muggle money. The most he'd ever handled was two pounds at a time, the measly allowance allotted twice a year at the orphanage. He was slightly overwhelmed by his grandmother's generosity, and it didn't even cross his mind to second-guess her motives like he did whenever anyone else offered him anything of value.

With a delighted smirk, he snatched up the other satchel containing the galleons, sickles and knuts that had been sent with his supply list – the allowance from the scholarship that allowed him to attend Hogwarts – and extracted his wand, disapparating with a soft pop.

Diagon Alley was waiting.

* * *

Hermione had only been home for an hour when a tawny owl swooped through the open door of The Three Broomsticks carrying a rather large parcel. Setting down the rag she'd been using to wipe down the bar, she deftly untied the package and after setting it down, retrieved a bit of food for the owl to snack on. It accepted it with a grateful hoot before stretching its impressive wings and flying out. Hermione looked at the parcel, a thrill of excitement coursing through her body.

She had only finished the entrance exam an hour before, surely it couldn't be the results already? She pondered this for a moment, wondering if Dumbledore had anything to do with the expediency of her results.

"Putting the cart before the horse, Hermione," she chastised herself, staring at the large, unopened envelope with a burgeoning sense of fear. Last time she'd opened an unknown missive, she'd been transported to the middle of nowhere and subjected to Snape's perversions. "Are you a witch or aren't you?" she muttered in exasperation at herself before extracting her wand from her apron and performing a series of detection spells. Finding nothing dangerous, she finally picked it up and turned it over. The flap was sealed with the raised wax emblem of Hogwarts – the very same that had intrigued her when she had been a young girl of eleven, still oblivious to the wonders of the magical world. A thrill of delight shot through her body, and without hesitating, she tore in to the package and dumped the contents on the sparkling surface of the recently cleaned bar.

_Miss Hermione Buchanan,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please note that the new term begins on September 1__st__. Included is a list of supplies for seventh year students, as well as an allowance to purchase supplies and robes for the coming term. Students are permitted to bring an owl, cat, or toad if they so desire. Please note that there is a limit of one pet for every student. As you are entering the seventh year, possession of a broom is allowed. A comprehensive list of rules has been included in your acceptance packet and we ask that you make yourself familiar with the contents before the start of term. _

_Your sorting will take place a week hence, as the Welcome Feast sorting is considered a special event for entering first years. Please return to Hogwarts at noon on the seventh, where you and your fellow transfers will be sorted in the Deputy Headmaster's office. If you have any questions or concerns, please raise them at this meeting._

_We look forward to seeing you this term!  
_

_Sincerely,_

_Albus P.W.B. Dumbledore_

_Deputy Headmaster_

Hermione couldn't stop the grin that spread across her face, and with the first thrill of happiness she'd felt in ages, she began dancing around the small area behind the counter. A soft laugh sounded through the room, and with a start of embarrassment, she stopped and stood facing the elderly man who had entered from the kitchen, a blush creeping up her cheeks.

"Been accepted then?" Cormac said, a grin to match hers spreading across his wrinkled face. Hermione beamed and nodded in excitement. She thrust he letter in to his waiting hand and bounded back over to the counter to go through the rest of the packet. She didn't even bother counting the coins in the satchel before stuffing it in her pocket, and glanced over the supply list before folding it neatly and placing it with the bag. The rest of the packet contained the aforementioned rules, which she would read later. She banished the items to her room and turned to Cormac with a hopeful look on her face. He handed her the letter, chuckling again as he read her features. "Take the rest of the day off then," he said, hugging her in a bearish grip that defied his thin frame. Hermione squealed and hugged him back just as fiercely.

"I'll be back before the dinner rush, I promise!" she exclaimed, _accio_ing her light summer cloak that she had transfigured out of her old battle robes. Tying it loosely about her shoulders, she shot Cormac a wink and disapparated.

* * *

Tom strode out of Gringotts Bank with a determined stride, clutching the key to his new vault almost painfully. He'd never before had enough money to open one, but after exchanging thirty of the muggle coins in to wizarding currency he was finally able to. The remainder of the money his grandmother had left him lay nestled in the folds of his cloak, next to the supply allowance from Hogwarts, jingling happily as he strode through the late afternoon crowd.

He was loath to release the key – the one thing that tied him to the wizarding world so long as a coin remained in that vault. In the few minutes since the goblin had handed it to him, the tiny golden key had become the most important possession he had ever acquired. Tom's knuckles turned white as his fist flexed around the cool medal.

The gaggle of excited children and harried parents pressed in around him, and soon he was swallowed up by the crowd, moving through a sea of new and old students alike, all hurrying from store to store to purchase their supplies for the coming term. Tom noticed none of this. His attention was so focused on the key in his hand that he didn't even realize when the crowd broke around him and he stumbled across the cobblestone streets and right in to the young woman standing still, examining the supply list clutched in her hands. They both fell to the ground hard, emitting pained grunts.

"Now who's bumping in to whom?" Hermione muttered darkly as she stared up at the man lying on top of her. She raised an eyebrow when his head snapped up, but he made no move to stand.

"You!" he hissed darkly, his eyes narrowing in realization. Hermione rolled her eyes, wiggling in an attempt to free herself.

"Stunning observation," she drawled, pushing at his chest when she realized she was good and pinned beneath his lean, deliciously warm body.

'_Deliciously warm?'_ Hermione thought to herself with horror. With renewed efforts, she pushed at Tom's chest, coming close to kneeing him in the groin just so that he would move. He seemed to realize their position just in time, and hastily climbed to his feet before his nether regions became a target. Hermione rolled to her knees, standing shakily as she looked around for the supply list she'd dropped. Seeing it nowhere, she sighed in exasperation.

"I've lost my list, thank you very much!" she snapped, hands on her hips and foot taping much in the same manner that Marion's had only an hour before. Tom couldn't stop the amused smirk that spread across his face at this observation. Hermione, however, had no idea that his amusement stemmed from her resemblance to the fierce matriarch of the Riddle household and not his delight at being the cause of her current frustration. If she had, perhaps she wouldn't have done what she did next.

"Ow! What in Merlin's name was that for?" Tom snapped, rubbing a hand over the stinging cheek that Hermione had just slapped. Huffing, she turned on her heel and stalked off through the crowd without answering. Glowering, he hurried after her. "Don't walk away when I'm talking to you!" he yelled, ignoring the indignant squeals as he roughly shoved through a gaggle of young girls in pursuit of the livid woman.

"You deserved it, Tom Riddle!" she spat out over her shoulder, coming to a sudden stop. "You, with that infuriating smirk proclaiming your absolute _joy_ at being the bane of my existence!" Hermione stalked forward, jabbing him painfully in the chest with her pointed finger repeatedly until his back hit the cool brick of Ollivander's. "You made me lose my supply list from Hogwarts! Now what am I going to do? I hadn't even started my shopping, and now I haven't the faintest idea what to get!"

Hermione had him so effectively cornered that Tom couldn't even move to reach the wand in his pocket without alerting her and enticing her ire.

"You're going to Hogwarts?" he muttered instead, somewhat shocked by this development. She'd always come off as older than school age, and he'd assumed that she'd already completed her magical education. Tom was slightly unsettled to realize that he'd been wrong, especially when he was usually spot on with those kinds of observations.

"Why do you care?" Hermione snapped, taking a step back when her body went traitorous and decided to delight in the nearness of the other body.

Tom straightened, stepping away from the wall and fingering his wand through the fabric of his robes. He would make no move in public, unless she provoked a reaction of self-defense. The last thing he needed was a ministry inquiry and a potential sentence in Azkaban. His plans had already been diverted once this summer, and he didn't need another distraction or bump in the road. This mysterious woman was definitely a distraction, he decided.

An utterly fascinating distraction.

Tom cursed his body's reaction as he watched Hermione flip her long mane of curly, dark brown hair over a slender shoulder. Growling to himself, he determined that he needed to get as far away from her as possible. She had the potential to ruin everything, and he couldn't allow that.

Turning on his heel, he moved to disappear in the crowd.

"Wait!" her voice sounded, and Tom ground his teeth when his body decided to turn on him and stop at the pleading tone.

"What?" he snapped, glaring as she caught up to him.

"Are you going back to Hogwarts this year?" she murmured softly, suddenly everything but the fiery young woman she had been only moments ago. Tom's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Yes, why?" he muttered, his voice laced with confusion.

"What year?" Hermione asked, though she knew full well that he would be entering his final year, as Head Boy at that. Tom didn't know that she knew, though, and the more knowledge she held over him the better.

"Seventh," Tom replied, pushing through the door to the bustling bookstore.

"Can you make a copy of your list for me, then?" she asked almost shyly. Tom was severely tempted to leave her empty handed, but once again his body rebelled against his mind and before he knew what he was doing, he was pulling out the supply list.

"And if we aren't enrolled in the same classes?" Wand poised over the piece of parchment, he quirked an eyebrow at her and smirked devilishly.

"I'm taking everything but Muggle Studies," she said, having pre-enrolled - in all of Tom's classes, at that - before the exam in the case that she was accepted. She grinned triumphantly when his shoulders dropped noticeably and he quickly murmured a copying charm. He shoved the copy into her outstretched hand and turned away, moving hastily through the stacks. Hermione laughed at his retreating back. "Thank you!"

Hermione completed her supply shopping quickly, and a half-hour later she was standing on a round pedestal being measured for robes. Staring blankly ahead, she watched through the glass windows as Tom Riddle exited the potions shop, shrinking his packages and putting them in his pocket. When he glanced up and saw her staring at him through the window, Hermione swore she saw a light blush rise up his pale cheeks, before he hurried through the arch in to the Leaky Cauldron, disappearing from her sights.

And slowly, a new plan began forming in her mind. One that she never before would have contemplated in a million years, but now seemed the perfect way to defeat Lord Voldemort.

She was going to teach Tom Riddle to love.

* * *

**AN: **So she has a plan. What next? School starts next chapter, and we find out what house Hermione was sorted in to. Review for me, my lovelies! 


	9. Chapter Eight

**Disclaimer: **I'm not stupid enough to claim owning any of this.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **An amazing turnout for the last chapter, I must say. Most reviews out of all the previous chapters – but that's probably because everyone's finished reading Deathly Hallows and is now feeling bereft at the conclusion of the series, and is therefore delving in to fanfiction with vigor. Whatever the excuse, KEEP IT COMING. I appreciate all of the comments and suggestions, and believe me, I take them all to heart. Anyway, I woke up with the most terrible migraine today, which pushed back my plans a bit. This chapter would have been up sooner if not for my penchant for debilitating headaches (a curse I've been afflicted with since I was a toddler). But that's neither here, nor there. You're still getting a chapter – obviously – just late. And I'm in a rambling mood, so I should probably shut up.

* * *

_**Chapter Eight**_

Dawn approached, kissing the horizon and bathing the solitary figure standing by the window in an ethereal orange glow. The promise of a brilliant day danced upon the grass, glistening with early morning dew, sparkling like a thousand diamonds scattered upon the hillside. It was picturesque – nothing more, nothing less. The view would have made a spectacular postcard, in the figure's opinion.

Not that it mattered, when you didn't have someone to send a postcard to, the figure mused with a snort of unveiled bitterness as they turned away from the window and stared at the half-packed trunk sitting at the foot of the bed. A neatly stacked pile of books sat on the bed beside crisply folded robes, ready to be added meticulously to the other items already safely ensconced in the ratty, second-hand wooden contraption that might have had an interesting history, if the owner had cared to find out – which they didn't. With quiet concentration, a number of shrinking spells were aimed at the remaining objects on the bed – for the figure knew that there wasn't enough room in three trunks for all of the items to be transported full-size, let alone one. Then, with almost obsessive care, the figure set about packing the shrunken objects, enjoying the tactile sensation as pale, smooth fingers ran over worn, leather bindings and soft, cotton fabric.

A soft noise at the door startled the figure, who snatched their wand off the bed and aimed it at the intruder. Paranoia, it seemed, ran deep these days.

"I is being sorry for intruding, Mistress Buchanan," Milly the house-elf apologized hastily, shielding her wrinkled face with overly long, gray fingers and trembling where she stood. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and slowly lowered her wand, though refusing to release it. "Master Cormac sent me to see if Mistress is requiring assistance?"

"No, Milly," Hermione murmured softly, returning to her packing with trembling hands. She knew, in the back of her mind, that she had to get over this silly paranoia. Snape was gone, and Riddle had yet to turn in to the complete monster that she knew from the future. Still, as Mad-Eye had always pointed out, a little bit of paranoia was necessary in self-defense. _'Constant vigilance!'_ he barked in her mind, making Hermione snort. Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to the small elf shuffling anxiously on bare feet in the corner. "I'm almost finished. Thank you for offering," she added, always the advocate for house-elf equality. If she couldn't free the abused creatures, then the least she could do was be polite. This was 1943 – campaigning for house-elf rights would probably end her up in Azkaban, or banished from the wizarding world. As a freethinking, powerful, intelligent woman, Hermione knew she would have to watch herself in this time. While suffrage was already a couple of decades in the past, there were still some things that women just didn't do in this time. She had already slipped up a few times with her blatant flirting with Tom, and her brash reactions to confrontations, especially with members of the opposite sex.

"If you is being sure?" Milly asked tentatively, once again snapping Hermione out of her musings.

"Yes, I'm sure," she replied, placing the last item in the trunk and snapping the lid shut with a dull thud. The locks were missing, but it mattered not to Hermione, who muttered a series of charms to fasten and lock the trunk against anyone other than herself. An extremely powerful wizard might be able to break through the required recognition spells, but for the few seventh year students that she would no doubt be sharing a dorm with, it was effective enough. When she was finished, Hermione looked up and was surprised to find that Milly had disappeared. Sighing, she shrugged and flopped on to the bed, closing her eyes against the exhaustion that suddenly crept through her body. She'd been so excited about returning to Hogwarts and having access to the vast stores of knowledge offered by both the library and the hidden items in the Room of Requirement that sleep hadn't been forthcoming. Now that she was all packed, however, and the train wasn't due to arrive in Hogsmeade until dusk, sleep was more than willing to pay a visit to the visitor from the future.

As the sun crested over the hill, lighting the day with promises, Hermione fell in to darkness.

_She was the first to arrive, Hermione realized as she stepped followed the house-elf in to Professor Dumbledore's office. Even the Deputy Headmaster himself wasn't present, which struck her as odd. She wasn't that early – there was only ten minutes remaining until noon. It was nothing to be suspicious about, though, she decided, wandering around the room that was decorated so differently from the woman that would occupy this office in the future. Where Professor McGonagall had been tidy and austere, Professor Dumbledore was a riot of activity. It reminded her of his office as Headmaster, but less organized. He was downright messy, she decided with an amused snort, taking in the desk littered with candy wrappers, empty mugs, and spare bits of parchment, tattered quills with broken nibs, and empty inkwells. The only neat aspect of the desk was the tidy row of fiery red phoenix feathers with golden nibs sitting in front of an array of colorful inks that reminded Hermione of the rainbow. _

_A soft trill by the open window caught Hermione's attention, drawing her gaze away from the chaotic desk. Perched on the windowsill, sharp golden eyes taking in her every move, sat Fawkes. Smiling widely, Hermione circled the desk and held out a hand for the phoenix to examine. He touched his beak to her forefinger, eyes closing as he drew in both her scent and magical aura. He must have deemed her worthy – once again, she grinned in amusement – for he suddenly nuzzled her hand and let out a content warble. _

_"Hello Fawkes," she whispered, unaware of the man standing in the open doorway. She missed the bushy auburn eyebrows that suddenly rose in to the man's hairline, and the look of complete shock that flew across the gently aged features. When she stepped away from the brilliant bird, he was quick to step away from the door, lest he be discovered. Hermione sighed softly, checking the clock on the far wall, and sat in one of three chintz arm charms placed before the desk._

_"Miss Buchanan," Professor Dumbledore intoned pleasantly as he stepped in to the room. Hermione looked over her shoulder and smiled at the older man as he circled his desk and sat in his own chair, resting his beard-covered chin on steepled fingers. "A pleasure to see you again," he murmured, gazing at her over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. His clear blue eyes were sparkling with curiosity, something that made Hermione squirm in her seat._

_"And you as well, Professor," she replied politely, unconsciously smoothing down the fabric of her neat square-neck dress. _

_"I must say, Miss Buchanan, I was pleasantly surprised by your scores on the entrance exam." He spoke very casually, but Hermione knew there was a hint of accusation in his tone. She fidgeted, but did not lower her gaze. Doing so would only further his suspicion and the last thing she needed was Dumbledore looking in to her past, or lack there-of. "Your levels far exceed that of the average seventh year student," he added with quirked eyebrows. Hermione merely nodded like this was old news, which served to unsettle the older man she noted with triumph. Dumbledore straightened in his seat, his eyes suddenly turning calculating. "Which begs the question of why you are so intent on returning to school when surely there is nothing left for Hogwarts to teach you."_

_"You understand the times we are living in, Professor Dumbledore," Hermione spoke knowledgably, even though she was truly anything but. She only knew what she remembered from history books, and what she had learned in the few months since she'd arrived. He didn't need to know that, though. "Without a degree from a reputable institution of magical education and completing the N.E.W.T.'s, society will accept me as nothing more than a broodmare, or in the case of the past few months, a waitress." _

_"That is true enough," Dumbledore conceded with a nod of his head, the calculation gaze leaving his eyes to be replaced once again with pure curiosity. "Then why Hogwarts, and not Beauxbatons?" he questioned, earning a grin from Hermione._

_"Simple," she replied with a slight shrug. "Hogwarts' library is better." _

_Hermione could tell he was about to barrage her with another stream of questions, but at that moment the same house-elf that had shown her the way arrived with two others in tow – a young girl around fourteen with lank blonde hair and sad hazel eyes, and a tall boy of sixteen with unruly black hair that reminded Hermione of Harry. She smiled fondly at the thought, wondering if the two could be related in any way. A silly thought, she knew._

_"Ah, Mr. McLaggen, Miss Hooch, welcome, welcome!" Dumbledore greeted enthusiastically, standing to shake the newcomer's hands. He'd been far less enthusiastic to see her, but Hermione suspected it had something to do with his reservations about her. The names struck a chord with Hermione, who suddenly realized that the young girl who stood before her was the future flying coach and Quidditch referee, Rolanda Hooch. Looking at the sheer bulk of the tall boy, she was suddenly struck with the image of the brash Gryffindor who had fancied her for a time in her sixth year. She wondered if this was his uncle, Tiberius, whom Slughorn had raved about at many Slug Club meetings. With a mental groan, Hermione realized that once Slughorn got wind of her intelligence, she would no doubt have to deal with his nasty club once again. "Shall we begin?" _

_All three teens nodded, eying the tattered hat that he now retrieved from a high, glassed-in shelf. When McLaggen stood to go first, Dumbledore tsked good-naturedly._

_"Ladies first, Nathaniel!" he exclaimed, beckoning the blonde girl forward. So, not Tiberius, Hermione learned. Perhaps a grandfather, she idly pondered as the hat was lowered on to the young girl's head. It was there for nearly a minute before the brim split open and declared the girl to be a Hufflepuff. Hermione smiled at her, mouthing congratulations as she pushed out of her own seat. "Miss Buchanan?" Dumbledore prompted when Hermione hesitated. Worrying her bottom lip, she stepped forward, and with a deep breath, allowed the hat to be placed on her head._

_'Hmmm,' the sorting hat begun, and Hermione could almost see it tapping its non-existent forehead in thought. 'You present quite the conundrum, Miss… Buchanan? No, that's not right. An Occlumens, too! Ah well, I fear I shall never know your true name, then,' it spoke, almost bemused. Hermione heaved a mental sigh of relief. She almost hadn't raised her mental wall in time. She didn't need the hat spilling her every secret to Dumbledore, or anyone else for that matter. 'That's not your only secret, eh?' it spoke knowingly, chuckling in her mind. 'With your mind Occluded, it will make a difficult job of sorting you properly.' _

_'Sorry,' she shrugged mentally, earning another chuckle from the magical hat. _

_'There hasn't been a student whom I couldn't sort before, and I'm not about to start with you!' it exclaimed over-dramatically. 'From what I can see, you possess traits from every house that tell me you would fit in any one. Dear me, but this is difficult.' The hat was silent for some time, and Hermione could almost feel the magic it was imbibed with as it tried to pry at her mental wall. It took all of her concentration to keep Gryffindor's creation from succeeding. 'Very well, then,' it spoke, almost sadly. 'If you treasure your secrets so much, then you will go in the one house that can truly appreciate the art of secrets and deception.'_

_Hermione didn't even have time to lodge a very heated complaint before the rim of the hat split open and bellowed "SLYTHERIN!"_

Hermione bolted upright in bed, breathing heavily as she came out of the dream. _'Nightmare, is more like it'_ she thought grumpily as she pulled herself out of bed and stood with a yawn. The dream had been a memory of the sorting for the most part. That was until it decided to take a rather unpleasant turn and deviate out of the realm of truth and into the realm of 'what the hell was my subconscious thinking?'.

Heaving a sigh, she strode over to the window and looked out upon the setting sun watching as it began to dip below the horizon. Had she really slept that long? Checking her watch, she realized with a start that the train was due to arrive soon, and she would have to hurry to reach the station in time. Hurrying to the dresser where her uniform and robes hung for the evening, she hastily changed, banishing her dress to the trunk. As she came to stand before the mirror mounted on the back of the door, she straightened her blue and bronze tie and appraised her reflection with a soft smile.

What her dream had failed to replay was the fact that, in the end, the hat had become frustrated and asked her where she would like to be placed. Knowing that as a Gryffindor, she wouldn't get within two feet of Riddle again, she opted to go to the house that the hat had almost sorted her in to the first time. Ravenclaw suited her and her thirst for knowledge, and she knew the Slytherins genuinely respected this house.

Content with her appearance for the time being, her brown curls in a neat ponytail rather than the typical forties updo that she had yet to master, Hermione nodded and strode over to her trunk, which she shrunk and placed in her pocket. Sheathing her wand in her sleeve, she strode out the door, bidding her room goodbye, and hurried down the stairs. There, she met a teary Cormac, who tried to hide his sniffles behind the noise of rattling dishes as he cooked.

"I cannot even begin to thank you for all that you have done for me, Cormac," Hermione said, wrapping her arms around the older man from behind. He turned and embraced her in his wiry frame.

"Think nothing of it lass," he mumbled in to her robes. "I'm glad to have known ye," he added, pulling back and offering her an honest smile. Hermione giggled and swatted him playfully on the shoulder.

"It's not like I'm disappearing! I'll still see you on Hogsmeade weekends," she reminded, to which the old man blushed and turned back to his cooking. "I'll visit every chance I get!" Hermione tried to reassure, though inwardly, she had no idea how long she would be in this time. If she didn't find a way home, she could be stuck here permanently.

"See that you do," Cormac grumbled, wagging a sharp knife in her face, which Hermione skillfully dodged. She sent him a chastising look, and was about to say more when the train whistle sounded in the night. "You'd best be going, lass," he murmured softly, his eyes turning sad once more. He hugged Hermione one last time before shoving her toward the door. "Get, or you'll miss the carriages!"

"Yes, sir!" she laughed, smiling through tears and waving as she pushed through the door. The night beyond was crisp, cooling as autumn descended. She set off in a run, ignoring the curious looks of passersby, and managed to reach the station just as the doors of the train were opening to let off the students. She blended easily in to the crowd and managed to find a seat with a gaggle of chattering Ravenclaws, who glanced at her curiously.

"Who are you?" asked a snotty-looking girl with long, black hair and piercing blue eyes. Hermione raised her eyebrows and studied the questioner.

"No one of importance," she replied evenly, earning a shrewd glare. She was reminded, at once, of an odd mixture of Bellatrix Lestrange and Molly Weasley. It was an unpleasant picture. "Who are you?" Hermione countered, leaning back in the carriage and folding her hands demurely in her lap.

"Someone of importance," the girl replied, flipping her hair over her shoulder and raising her head a notch. A boy with outrageously red hair who Hermione noticed was actually a Gryffindor and not a Ravenclaw, sighed heavily and shot the girl a reproachful look.

"Ignatius Prewett," he supplied, holding out his hand for Hermione to shake, which she did with a bit of bemusement. The others quickly followed suit, but Hermione recognized none of their names.

"Lucretia Black," the snooty girl supplied at last with a dramatic sigh, though she refused to hold out her hand. Hermione shook her head in bewilderment. A Black. She should have known. Hermione snorted inwardly and glanced surreptitiously between Ignatius and Lucretia. How these two opposites managed to procreate and make the amazing woman that Molly Weasley was, was far beyond Hermione.

"Hermione Buchanan," she supplied finally, and at their continued curious looks, she shrugged. "Transfer," she said by way of explanation. They all seemed to understand, which relieved Hermione immensely. She wasn't in the mood to answer questions right now, and was saved from any further as the carriage pulled to a stop outside the massive entrance to the castle.

In her hurry to get out of the carriage, Hermione's foot caught on her robe and soon she was tumbling toward the hard ground.

Only she never made impact.

"I thought we weren't going to make a habit out of this," a silky voice murmured in her ear. Hermione groaned audibly and hurriedly straightened herself, shooting Tom an annoyed look.

"It was an accident," she muttered defensively, momentarily forgetting about her goal to teach Tom to love. If she was going to succeed, she needed to get on his good side, and treating him with obvious contempt was not the way to go. She took a deep breath and schooled her features to hide her irritation. "How are you this evening?" she asked as they both made their way up the steps and in to the castle. She was surprised by his silence and peeking out of the corner of her eyes, she saw that he appeared to be in serious contemplation. The fact that an answer for such a simple question required such serious study greatly amused Hermione.

"I am fine," he replied at last, his voice belaying no emotion other than disinterest. Hermione rolled her eyes. They continued on in silence, and it was obvious to her that Tom was quite content to make no effort toward conversation.

"I'm fantastic, thank you for asking," Hermione muttered sarcastically before she could catch herself. Tom shot her a sharp look, to which she blushed profusely and shrugged as if to say 'Oops?'.

"Why am I not surprised that you're a Ravenclaw," Tom said softly as they entered the great hall. With the Ravenclaw table right next to the Slytherin, Hermione was able to walk on beside the Slytherin. "Then again, with your brashness I'm entirely surprised that you're not a Gryffindor," he spat out with contempt. Hermione had to force herself not to defend her old house. That alone would reveal far too much about her character – things that he couldn't know if she was to succeed in her plan.

Oh, who was she kidding? There was no way she was going to be able to teach Riddle to love. Creatures like him were incapable of such a complex emotion.

"Good evening, Riddle," she dismissed, ignoring his comments as she swept down the aisle and deposited herself at the end of the Ravenclaw table. She watched under hooded eyes as Tom sat himself at the Slytherin table, almost directly across from her. A tall blonde immediately caught up his attention, a boy that Hermione had no doubt was a Malfoy – Abraxas, if she remembered correctly. They were talking heatedly and Malfoy kept glaring in her direction. Tom seemed to notice this, and Hermione couldn't stop the smirk as Malfoy was rebuffed. When Tom looked her way himself, Hermione raised her eyebrows as if to say 'Yes?". He scowled and immediately looked away.

"I've never seen a girl catch Riddle's attention as much as you seem to have," a soft, airy voice murmured from beside Hermione. Startled, she whipped her head around and succeeded in whacking the person with her ponytail. She blushed and apologized to the blonde boy, who merely nodded and smiled as if he didn't have a care in the world. Reminded her of…

"Neptune Lovegood," he introduced, holding out a purple hand. Hermione blinked rapidly, eyeing the purple hand as laughter bubbled on her lips. Oh yes, this man was most definitely related to Luna. She wouldn't be surprised if he was wearing radish jewelry.

As if reading her mind, the hint of a radish necklace peeked out from the neck of the boy's robes. Hermione grinned and eagerly shook his hand, introducing herself.

"Beware of Riddle," Neptune warned airily, watching as the first years filed through the doors. "He was raised by Googlesnores, and they're a nasty bunch." Reaching in his robes, he pulled out another necklace that had an assortment of muggle coins hanging from it and handed it to Hermione. "This will protect you from Googlesnore venom."

Hermione had to resist the urge to laugh out loud as she accepted the necklace and fastened it around her neck. The coins jingled merrily against her chest, earning a toothy grin from Neptune.

"Thank you," she grinned back, tucking in to the feast as it appeared. She couldn't believe she had missed the entire sorting, but somehow, Neptune was far more fascinating than a bunch of first years that would be in their sixties in her time. The feast drifted on, and Hermione was content to keep to herself for the most part. Every now and then she would feel a hole burning through her and would look up to see Tom giving her an odd look, which he would quickly mask and look away.

When the feast ended and the last of dessert faded away, Headmaster Dippet stood to make his welcoming speech. Hermione found it very dull compared to Dumbledore's quirky speeches, and soon tuned him out to gaze around the great hall and look for familiar faces. At the Gryffindor table a young girl with brown hair pulled back in a severe bun, and square shaped glasses perched on her thin nose was instantly recognizable as Minerva McGonagall. Hermione shook her head in amusement and continued her perusal. When she reached the Slytherin table, she was shocked to see a pudgy girl, no more than twelve, with frilly pink accents added to her green and silver uniform, and Hermione had to hold back a gag of disgust. Umbridge. Shuddering, she swept her eyes up the table, where they once again landed on the gray orbs of Tom Riddle.

This time, neither looked away. There was a challenging look in his eyes, an odd smirk to his thin lips, and an almost excited color tingeing his normally pale cheeks. Hermione blinked rapidly and was the first to break eye contact. Shifting in her seat, she couldn't help but begin to doubt her plan. Something had happened during the feast to bring back the fire in the nasty Slytherin's eyes, and if the devious, triumphant smirk plastered across Malfoy's face was anything to go by, Hermione knew she would have to watch her back.

Tom Riddle was up to something.

* * *

**AN: **What did ya'll think? Let me know! Oh, and before you all start nit-picking, I purposefully fudged with the Black Family Tree to suit my needs. This is AU, after all... 


	10. Chapter Nine

**Disclaimer: **I'm too tired to claim ownership over anything.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **I completely wrote myself in to a corner last chapter. I made Riddle get up to something, and I have absolutely no idea what. So, I guess I'm going to have to wing it and pray that you don't hate it. I think no matter what I do, there will be people on both sides of the fence. Therefore, I will just write to the best of my ability and wear a poncho to protect my clothes from the inevitable tomatoes that will be hurled my way.

* * *

**_Chapter Nine_**

"She's lying to everyone," Abraxas Malfoy muttered the second Tom dropped gracefully on to the bench at the Slytherin table. He arched an eyebrow and leveled a blank gaze on the blonde boy, refusing to show more emotion than necessary. Showing too much would undermine his position of power in Slytherin house - a position that, even with his obvious magical strengths, was precarious at best.

"Oh?" He couldn't fight the impulse to glance over at the woman he knew Malfoy was referring to. Hermione Buchanan had unwittingly placed herself beside Loony 'Tune Lovegood, who even now was looking at her with a demented smile.

"Don't let her fool you," came the nasty hiss, earning the blonde a harsh glare from Tom. Abraxas straightened, obviously ruffled at the silent rebuff. "We don't know what she's capable of," he defended, his voice dropping a notch as nearby students leaned toward the powerful duo, hoping to catch a thread of the conversation that had the Head Boy glaring contemptuously at his most loyal subordinate.

Tom sighed in frustration and cast a quick _Muffliato_ spell, effectively cutting off the would-be eavesdroppers. Turning his gaze back to Hermione, he was surprised to see her looking at him. Her eyebrow rose in silent challenge, to which Tom scowled and immediately looked away.

"She's a woman," he scoffed, mentally shaking off the uneasiness that had crept up his spine with her openly defiant look. Tom's head twitched to the side, an unconscious tic as his frustration in the situation increased. "What can she possibly be capable of that we cannot handle?"

Malfoy gaped openly at his usually levelheaded counterpart. Shaking his head, he glanced at the Ravenclaw table and glared maliciously at the woman who was already becoming an unwanted distraction. If she wasn't eliminated quickly, she had the potential to ruin all of their plans. All of _his _plans.

"In this instance, I would strongly caution you not to underestimate this particular woman," Malfoy murmured evenly, reaching in to the folds of his robes and retrieving a thick roll of parchment from a hidden pocket. With practiced flair, he brandished it in front of Riddle, who snatched it out of his hand with an irritated scowl. As Abraxas turned his attention to the first years filing in, Tom unrolled the parchment and read with eager eyes.

"How did you get this?" he demanded, ire infusing his cheeks with color as he read the scores of Hermione's entrance exams. _'This is impossible!' _he thought to himself with more unease than he was comfortable with. The mysterious woman had scored O's in everything but Divination, where she only managed an A – which in and of itself was a remarkable score, considering the instability of the subject.

"I can be very… _persuasive_ when I need to be," Malfoy answered slyly, a smirk gracing his cold features as he once again glanced at the female Ravenclaw. Tom followed his gaze, his stomach churning as he watched Hermione beam at Neptune and fasten an odd looking necklace around her neck. He swallowed down the bitter feeling, his gaze turning hard as he rounded on Abraxas.

"I want to know everything you know," he demanded, his brilliant gray eyes flashing with rage. Malfoy visibly shuddered, feeling the waves of anger as they radiated off the formidable Slytherin. It was times like this that reminded him why he never questioned Riddle's authority.

"That's the thing," he started hesitantly, concentrating his attention on the meal before him in an effort to remain nonchalant. "I don't know anything." Blinking at this statement, he shook his head and quickly continued. "About this Hermione Buchanan, that is," he corrected, puffing out his chest to heal the self-inflicted wound to his ego. Tom scowled irritably at his pompous acquaintance, ignoring the food spread before them.

"What do you mean?" he muttered dangerously, clenching the roll of parchment in his hand until his knuckles turned white. The blonde beside him carefully set down his fork and demurely folded his hands in his lap. His gaze remained riveted on the half-empty plate before him. Tom resisted the urge to hex the man when no reply was forthcoming. "Well?"

Malfoy, for his part, knew that the news he had to impart would not be received well. He did so loathe being the bearer of bad news, as it usually resulted in a serious case of bat-bogey's and a few days in the hospital wing. Tom was volatile when angered, as he had learned first hand on more than one occasion. How he managed to portray the polite prefect pretty boy and have the professors wrapped around his bony finger was far beyond Malfoy's comprehension, especially when he was anything but. If they only saw what went on behind closed doors, when in the company of his most loyal followers.

Clenching his hands in his lap, Malfoy looked up and glared at Hermione Buchanan. It was all her fault.

Heaving an agitated sigh, Abraxas averted his gaze and gritted his teeth.

"After my initial inquiries turned up no answers, I delved deeper," he explained carefully. He looked up to see Tom nod to continue. He was the picture of calm, though the fire raging in his eyes gave away the extent of his ire. "I was met with dead ends at every turn. Even when I had a few contacts chance gathering intelligence in Germany, thinking that she may be a refugee of some sort, I was rewarded with more questions than answers. There is no record of Hermione Buchanan anywhere. She simply does not exist." When he chanced a glance at the ebony haired teen beside him, he wasn't surprised to see Riddle glaring heatedly at the object of their discussion. "At least, she didn't until a few weeks ago, when mention of her suddenly appeared in the ministry archives," he continued, nodding at the crumpled parchment in Tom's hand. "Those exams are the only proof that she ever existed. I even had the muggle world searched, thinking that she might just be a filthy mudblood," he spat, earning a sharp look. Malfoy was taken aback at this. Riddle had never reacted that way to the term before – in fact, he had always encouraged the use of it.

"I need answers, Malfoy," Tom murmured darkly. He cocked his head to the side and leveled an almost casual look upon the young man beside him. Malfoy gulped visibly. "How do you suggest I get those answers?"

"I do not know, my Lord," came the mumbled reply as Abraxas glared at the plate of dessert that suddenly replaced his half-eaten diner. Riddle tsked, turning on the bench to examine his plate with casual indifference.

"Then I suggest you find out," he said simply, picking up a gold, gilded spoon and scooping a bite of pudding, which he ate with the same practiced precision that he applied to everything else in his life.

They were silent through most of dessert; Tom eating quietly while beside him Malfoy sulked, his own pudding remaining untouched. When the feast ended, the last of the plates disappeared and Dippet the Dimwit stood to make his self-righteous speech, he arched an eyebrow at Abraxas.

"I…I…" he stuttered, something that was completely unbecoming and made Tom scowl in irritation. Malfoy straightened in his seat and smirked devilishly. "I could seduce the answers out of her," he suggested with a malicious grin. Tom blanched and glowered at his counterpart.

"You will do no such thing!" he snapped. The idea was not without merit his mind argued despite his protestations. Why shouldn't Malfoy seduce her to get answers? The handsome teen was quite skilled in that particular area, as he liked to point out time and again. It was barbaric, but might prove to be effective.

So why did it unsettle him so much? Why was the acid once again churning in his stomach, creeping up his throat and leaving an unpleasant taste on his tongue? Why did the mere thought of Malfoy touching Hermione make him want to hex the blonde Casanova?

Tom shifted on the bench, his gaze landing on the woman who had invaded his life. An unfamiliar feeling rose in his chest, which he quashed immediately, looking away just as she turned her chocolate eyes upon him in question. Malfoy was looking at him anxiously, and for the first time ever he was at a loss for words.

"My Lord?"

"Shut up," Tom snapped angrily. "I'm thinking."

Though the idea of seduction did not sit well with Tom – which was odd, considering all the other methods of persuasion he had no problem contemplating – he knew that it might prove to be the best way to extract answers from this questionable witch.

In fact, it could prove to be most enlightening.

Slowly, a plan began to form in his mind, and as it blossomed and grew and took shape and definition in his mind, a devilish smirk spread across his face, a tinge of color rising in his cheeks as his excitement grew. Malfoy noticed this, his earlier unease fading in to a wicked smirk of his own.

"_I'm_ going to seduce her," Tom declared, leveling a challenging look on Hermione, who blinked rapidly under the weight of his stare. When she looked away first both he and Malfoy smirked in triumph. Abraxas flung his long hair over his shoulder and chuckled evilly.

"She won't even know what hit her."

* * *

That evening, as satiated students fell in to their beds, stomachs full to bursting with the incredible feast, Hermione threw a robe over her nightgown and quietly crept out of her dorm. The bare stone floor chilled her feet as she descended the winding stairs and crossed the Ravenclaw common room, wand clutched tightly in a slightly trembling hand.

The only light in the room was the glow of dying embers in the fireplace, making it difficult for Hermione to navigate the unfamiliar room. Silently cursing as she stumbled in to a table, she stopped in her tracks and waited for someone to appear from the dorms and catch her nighttime wanderings. No one came, however, and she let out a sigh of relief she wasn't aware she'd been holding.

With considerably more care, she traversed the rest of the common room until she was standing before the exit. Before venturing in to the halls of Hogwarts, Hermione cast a _Disillusionment _charm on herself, sorely missing Harry's cloak and the Marauder's map.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione quietly slipped out of the room and looked hastily around. With no one in sight, she stole in to the shadows, moving carefully through the drafty corridors. As she hurried toward the library, she was careful to avoid patrolling professors, and was surprised when she crossed paths with Dumbledore, who gave no indication that he'd seen her or sensed her presence.

When Hermione finally reached her destination and slipped in the door, she let out a relieved breath and let the charm fall. On light toes, she hurried across the room and in to the stacks of books. She had a lot of research to do.

* * *

The halls were silent, devoid of all life. No students roamed, nor ghosts floated. If one concentrated hard enough, they might hear the whisper of the wind through the thick glass windows. The moon hid behind a wisp of cloud, basking the castle in shadows. Any other day the situation would have seemed ideal for sneaky teens intent on a midnight rendezvous, but not tonight.

Tom Riddle sighed softly, exhaustion tugging at his eyelids as he moved slowly through the empty halls. His patrol was almost over, and soon he would be allowed to claim a few hours of sleep before dawn. Thankfully, it was all he ever required.

He was about to call it a night when an unexpected sound reached his ears. Straining, he listened to the gentle creak of a door somewhere nearby. Curious, he followed the origination of the sound until he came upon the library. Here, the massive door stood slightly ajar, something that was usually unheard of. Madam White was obsessive in the way she cared for her library, with everything from the intricate organization of the thousands of books, to making sure the door was always secured and impenetrable after hours. The only other individuals allowed in her domain after curfew where the professors, and Tom knew that they had all retired for the evening only a short while ago. The last he'd encountered had been Dumbledore as he returned to his own quarters for the evening. The two had exchanged curt nods, both fully aware of their shared disdain.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Tom squeezed through the small gap, careful not to nudge the door and alert the intruder to his presence. Once clear, he shifted in to the darkness, moving stealthily from stack to stack, a predatory seeking its prey.

A soft sniffle and the barely audible rustle of pages turned his attention to a section in the back, rarely visited. Though he didn't deign to peruse this section himself, Tom knew exactly what was contained here. Muggle literature.

Scowling, he lighted across the vast room until he discovered the source of the noise.

He should have known.

There, sprawled in the middle of the floor with her back leaning against the wooden stacks, book after book stacked precariously about her, was Hermione Buchanan. Her chocolate curls obscured her face as she bent over a heavy tome splayed open on the floor, her legs waving in the air behind her as she read. Tom had to resist the urge to make his presence known and bust her for breaking curfew, but something in the back of his mind made him stop. Returning to the shadows of the nearest stacks, he crouched, quietly shifting books until he had created a gap with which to spy.

"This makes absolutely no sense!" she was muttering in exasperation, flipping the pages with such reckless abandon that Tom couldn't help but cringe. "Who in Hades wrote this? H.G. Wells?" she groused, slamming the book shut and banishing it back to the stacks, where it slid home with a relieved sigh. Hermione sent it a waspish glare before turning her attention to another tome.

'_H.G. Wells?' _Tom thought to himself with confusion. He'd heard of the man – a muggle novelist, if he recalled correctly. What confused him was the mention of Wells in relation to muggle physics, which Tom had been able to decipher from one of the books perched close to his gap. _"And why physics?'_ he questioned to himself, wishing he could get closer to read the other titles of the books surrounding the frustrated young woman.

"Somehow I doubt wormholes had anything to do with it," Hermione grumbled, leafing through the book before her with more care than its predecessor. Tom quirked his eyebrow at this foreign term, wondering what in Merlin's name worm's holes had to do with physics, H.G. Wells and magic. Hoping that she would illuminate on the subject, Tom sat on the floor, leaning his back against the stack in which he'd created the gap and focused his hearing on the woman in the next row over.

Luck was not on his side this evening, Tom soon discovered, as the night moved on and the only sound emitted were the rustling of pages as they were turned, and the weary sighs of his oblivious companion.

"Which is it? Mutable or immutable?" she muttered at one point, startling Tom, who nearly gave his presence away when he jerked out of the light slumber that had fogged his brain. Blinking, he allowed his eyes to readjust to the darkness, a difficult task as light from Hermione's wand filtered in and out of the tightly packed books. "Oh, I give up!" she exclaimed in exasperation, and the thud of a closing book drifted to where he sat, rigid against the rows of books. Shifting quietly, he peeked through the gap once more and watched as she banished book after book back to their respective spots before picking herself up off the ground and unconsciously smoothing down the light robe that hung open to reveal a demure white nightgown that swished gently about her bare feet. Tom gulped and averted his gaze. "I'll be lucky if I get an hour of sleep," he heard Hermione murmur through a yawn as she shuffled out of the stacks and in to the empty room beyond.

Tom made himself as small as possible as he shrunk in to the darkness afforded by the tall stacks. It would not do for the object of his investigation to discover his presence. It would not take much to deduce that he had been eavesdropping on her nighttime escapades, and he would rather not have to answer for himself before he got the answers he was seeking.

Thankfully, Hermione passed without even a glance in his direction. Holding his breath, he waited until the soft click of the door closing behind her echoed through the large room before he dared to move. Standing and stretching his cramped limbs, Tom looked at the clock on the far wall and was shocked to realize that it was nearly five in the morning. Madam White would arrive within the hour to begin her day, leaving him virtually no time to peruse the shelves for the books that had both enraptured and fascinated Buchanan.

Hurrying over to the stack previously occupied by the cunning brunette, Tom used a spell to recall recently shelved books and anxiously read the titles.

"On a Stationary Cosmology in the Sense of Einstein's _Theory of Gravitation_," he read on one cover. Furrowing his eyebrows in bewilderment, he banished the book and turned to the next. "The Gravitational Field of a Distribution of Particles Rotating about an Axis of Symmetry." Blinking, he looked at the next, his eyebrows now shooting in to his hairline with surprise. "Quantum Mechanics?" he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. Now thoroughly confused, and seeing that every book held similar titles, Tom growled in frustration and banished them with a sharp flick of his wrist. If he had been more patient, he would have seen the one title that held all the answers.

Sitting demurely on the shelf, snug between its neighbors and happy to be home, was a relatively thin book bound in brown leather that proudly proclaimed in fading gold letters, "The Truth About Time Travel."

But Tom was hotheaded and quick to frustration, so the book remained undiscovered as he stalked across the room and out of the library. If he was lucky, he could get in an hour of sleep.

* * *

Morning dawned and the occupants of the castle pulled themselves from the comfort of bed, descending upon the Great Hall with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. The first day of classes was always full of mixed emotions. First years, eager to being their magical education, wore grins that stretched from ear to ear and bounced with an enthusiasm that the older professors envied, fifth years trudged wearily along, reluctant to begin yet another year of torture.

For two seventh years, morning was greeted with exhausted scowls and dragging feet. Onlookers surmised that neither teen was much of a morning person and silently commiserated. The truth; however, was quite different. The normally composed forms of Tom Riddle and Hermione Buchanan were crumpled simply because they had only poured themselves in to bed at the crack of dawn, and neither had garnered more than an hour of sleep.

"You're looking particularly rumpled this morning," Neptune said bluntly as Hermione dropped on to the bench beside him. She scowled at the airy teen and accepted the glass of juice he handed her. "It was the Googlesnores, wasn't it?" he spoke knowingly, buttering a steaming warm muffin and placing it on the empty plate before her.

"Something like that," Hermione muttered in reply, sipping at the juice and wishing she had a steaming cup of tea instead. Caffeinated, preferably. "Thank you," she added, her tone softening as the perceptive boy filled her plate with energizing foods.

"I think the Googlesnores got to Riddle as well," Neptune remarked casually, nodding at the yawning teen at the Slytherin table. Hermione quirked a tired eyebrow at the boy, who shot her a scowl in return. She chuckled softly, shaking her head and turning her attention to her meal.

"I thought they raised him?" she questioned, referring to their conversation from the previous evening. Neptune simply shrugged as he cut a slice of toast in to the shape of a star.

"They've been known to turn against their own," he answered, placing the star toast on his plate, next to the crescent shaped apple slices and sun shaped pile of scrambled eggs. Hermione snorted and rolled her eyes. The bizarre gene must have been diluted over the generations, because Luna wasn't even this batty, she mused with slight amusement.

Breakfast continued in silence, and unlike the evening before, Hermione didn't feel Riddle's penetrating gaze on her person. On the contrary, he appeared to be sleeping with his elbow in a bowl of porridge.

Unable to contain herself, Hermione laughed out loud, covering her mouth as delighted giggles spewed forth. Her outburst startled the sleepy occupants of the Great Hall, and Malfoy had the good sense to realize what she was laughing about. Or rather, _who_ she was laughing _at_. With a gentle nudge, he woke the dozing Head Boy, whose head snapped up with a painful looking jerk. Hermione saw a hint of red raise in his cheeks as Tom pulled his elbow out of his breakfast and clean his robes with an angrily muttered spell.

Malfoy leaned over and murmured something in the irate boy's ear, and Hermione knew immediately that she had been fingered as the one person who had dared laugh at the powerful Slytherin. He glared daggers at her, to which Hermione shrugged and returned to her own breakfast.

She wasn't going to let him intimidate her. Not if her plan was to succeed.

* * *

When Slughorn descended upon his house's table to distribute schedules, Tom snatched his from the man's pudgy fingers with an irritated scowl and returned to glaring at the Ravenclaw female who had her head full of curls bent over a slip of parchment Dumbledore had just handed her.

She was making a fool of him! It had to stop, Tom decided. He would put her in her place, before she ruined all of his plans.

Hermione Buchanan was going down.

* * *

**AN: **Ok, so that was a crap chapter, in my opinion. I apologize for the delay in posting. I had planned to finish it last night, but I was only halfway through when I began falling asleep at my desk. Anyway, please let me know what you think. 


	11. Chapter Ten

**Disclaimer: **I'm too tired to claim ownership over anything.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **It's been an unhealthy amount of time since I updated this story, and for that I apologize profusely. Things have been entirely too crazy in my life, and events have conspired to keep me from completing this story. Now that things are settling down a bit and I have more time on my hands, I figured it was about time I finish this thing. Hopefully, it will live up to your expectations.

* * *

Hermione was bored. It had been a mostly uneventful week since she had returned to Hogwarts and she was beginning to regret her decision to return, if only a little bit. She was far more advanced than the material being taught in all of her classes and as a result, Hermione was able to finish all her work in record time. This left her with hours of spare time which she should have spent researching a way to get home, but more often could be found sitting on the roof of the Astronomy tower and staring out at the autumn wilderness below.

Riddle had been unnervingly silent and unobtrusive since the first day of classes and it unsettled Hermione greatly. She wasn't sure of what to expect from the young man. He was unlike everything she had imagined, and wondered if it was in part to her influence – ensuring he had a family by intervening the day they had been destined for death.

These thoughts ate at her mind every time she ventured to the tower, and today was no different. The last class of the week had let out hours ago and dinner was probably well under way, but Hermione cared about none of that. With legs dangling over the edge of the tower, bare feet tickling the rough weather roughened brick, she sat on a long ledge, watching the sunset with blank eyes, mind racing over anything and everything.

The puzzle that was Tom Riddle intrigued and frustrated Hermione. Since he'd been accepted in to the Riddle household and gained a family, every move he made went against everything she had learned about the teenage Voldemort. There was something sinister in his eyes and cold smile, that was for sure, but there'd been a few times throughout the week where she'd observed his less than pleased reaction to the use of the word 'mudblood' and, even more confusing, she'd seen him help up a first year Gryffindor who'd tripped while running to class. There had been no professor present to impress, and he'd looked like he was swallowing lemons the entire time, but he'd done it none-the-less.

He presented a challenge. Hermione wanted nothing more than to crack this particular puzzle. And maybe, in the process, save the future as she knew it.

"Sickle for your thoughts?" a cool voice spoke behind her, startling Hermione from her inner musings. Speak of the devil…

"My thoughts are far more valuable than a sickle, Riddle," she retorted calmly, keeping her gaze on the horizon beyond. Even as she said the words, she Occluded her mind, quickly building the walls that would protect her mind from invasion. She didn't know if her words, softly spoken, had reached the Slytherin behind her, but she didn't care either. "What do you want?" she asked, this time allowing her voice to carry on the soft breeze.

"You weren't at dinner," came the matter-of-fact reply. By the closeness of his voice, Hermione surmised that he stood a hairsbreadth away, within reach. Instinctively, she fingered the wand nestled in her pocket.

"And that concerns you how?" she asked, finally looking over her shoulder and meeting his stony gaze. She quirked an eyebrow and waited for his reply. He seemed to ponder the question, his eyes glazing slightly as he shifted his gaze to the sky beyond. Hermione swung her legs over the ledge and slowly stood, her limbs stiff from her prolonged sitting position.

"It doesn't," Riddle finally replied, gaze snapping back to Hermione and watching as she stretched and yawned. A jolt of some unknown emotion shot through his body, pooling low in his belly. He winced at the feeling, but kept his eyes trained on the long lines of her body. He found himself admiring the gentle curve of her hip, the slight hourglass figured hidden beneath her school robes, and the fullness of her lip as her mouth parted in a gentle yawn. Why was he noticing these things and what was this effect she was having on him?

"So I return to my original question," her voice broke in to his mind, snapping him back to reality. "What do you want?"

"Contrary to what you may believe, not everything I do is about you," Riddle snapped, eyes gray eyes alighting with fire. Hermione jumped back in shock. This definitely wasn't the reaction she was expecting. Yet again, he surprised her. "I had no idea you'd be up here," he muttered, his posture rigid in defense. "I often come up here to think."

Hermione didn't know if she should believe him. His eyes, though stormy with some kind of mixed emotion, were not easily read. She frowned, biting her bottom lip.

"It _is _a great place to think," she finally conceded, folding her arms protectively over her chest. She could feel his gaze burning in to her and it both unsettled and exited her. Hermione fought to repress the blush that suddenly flared across her cheeks. "I guess I should leave you to it, then," she muttered quickly, turning on her heel to flee.

"You can stay." The words were spoken so softly that they barely reached Hermione before she disappeared through the doorway. Hermione halted, hand grasping the doorknob, her mouth agape. "There's plenty of ledge to go around." Riddle spoke louder, though she could tell he was still unsure of his words.

He was giving her a headache.

"How am I giving you a headache?" Riddle muttered in confusion. Hermione started, blinking rapidly. Had she really said that out loud? She must have, because she knew for a fact that her mind was still Occluded, the walls still safely guarding the truth.

"You're just so… so… unpredictable!" Hermione exclaimed, throwing up her hands in frustration and stomping over to the Slytherin, who looked shocked at her outburst. "You confuse me, and I HATE being confused," she continued, poking him the chest to emphasize every word. Tom stumbled backward with the force of her jabs, the look of shock morphing in to deep lines of confusion. "Just when I think I'm starting to understand you, you go and do something against everything I've come to expect! It's frustrating!"

"That's the pot calling the kettle black," Tom growled, his own voice laced with irritation. Hermione stopped her frustrated pacing to glare at the man standing before her.

"Excuse me?"

"You're just as frustrating to me as I am to you," he explained with a calm, cautious air. Circling her slowly, his eyes roved over her body with an assessing gleam, making Hermione feel naked beneath his gaze. She squirmed. "Who _are _you? Nobody seems to know!"

Hermione blanched, unsettled by the implication that people had noticed her lack of background. She saw Tom start at her flinch and quickly straightened, her features automatically masking over in to a look of casual indifference.

"Nobody _needs _to know," she countered, tilting her chin up in defiance. "Do you tell everyone everything about your private life?" she challenged, folding her arms over her chest and tapping her foot, eyebrow quirked high in to her hairline.

"Touché," Riddle conceded with a reluctant nod. It looked as if it pained him to admit that she was right. Hermione smirked in triumph, letting her hands fall to her side.

"We're all allowed our secrets. For self-preservation, if nothing else," Hermione murmured, her features softening as she gazed in to his stormy eyes. She could drown in those eyes, she decided with a frown.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Tom replied, his own voice as soft as hers. His mind flashed to his many indiscretions, least of all his murder of Myrtle. Admittedly, that had been a mistake. He'd warded that particular bathroom against visitation, but somehow the crybaby of Hufflepuff had made her way in just as he was letting the Basilisk out. Though it had been a mistake, he'd enjoyed the rush and thrill of death – the realization of just how much power he could wield with the legacy bequeathed to the heir of Slytherin – himself. It should have scared him – this lust for power and destruction – but it didn't. But somehow, for some reason, he still didn't want anyone to know. He guarded his heritage in every way he knew how, and downplayed his thirst for blood among his fellow Slytherins. Even his followers believed he only sought to rid Hogwarts of muggleborns – they had no idea the extent of his plans. Magical domination over the muggle world. Power and control over _everything. _

"I bet you do," Hermione muttered when a flash of red alighted the Slytherin's eyes, his mind obviously off somewhere else. She could only imagine where.

"What?" Shaking his head, Tom looked at Hermione in question. He knew she'd said something, but his head had been filled with memories and plans that he didn't have the faintest idea of exactly what she'd said. By the look on her face, it wasn't anything nice. He scowled.

"Nothing," Hermione muttered, shrugging it off and turning away before he could further question her. "It's late and I'm tired. Good evening," she tossed the words over her shoulder as she moved quickly to the door.

"Hermione!" Against her better judgment, Hermione stopped at the threshold and slowly turned. Riddle stood silhouetted against the dusky horizon, his robes billowing in the cool breeze. The sight was breathtaking and unnerved her beyond belief.

"Yes?" she asked softly, afraid to stay and equally afraid to leave. She watched as he took a few tentative stops forward, then stopped suddenly. His shoulders drooped slightly, startling Hermione.

"Good evening," he murmured finally, dropping his head. Perplexed by his actions, Hermione silently watched him for another minute before sighing softly and escaping through the open door.

She needed a large vial of Headache Relief Potion.

* * *

"It has to be mutable," Hermione muttered to herself, staring at the book in her lap. "History says that Voldemort killed his father's family on the day I intervened, but the are definitely alive – and so am I, which means I couldn't have destroyed the space-time continuum, or I would have ceased to exist, which I most definitely didn't, or else I wouldn't be here, right now, reading this damn, infuriating book!" she spoke all in one breath, a circle of logic that left her with purple cheeks and a slight throbbing behind her temples. "So, now the question becomes – am I changing the future that I know, or have I created a parallel universe?"

"It all quite depends on the method of travel," an unexpected voice answered, the voice laced with amusement and curiosity. Hermione sprang to her feet, the book clattering to the cold stone floor as she rounded upon the figure bathed in shadows.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Hermione questioned, though she knew the voice could belong to no one else. The older man stepped in to the soft light emitting from the tip of her wand and smiled softly. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, just a bit of light reading," he replied, waving his hand toward the library stacks on either side of Hermione. "I was quite surprised to find I was not alone. And that you share my interest for muggle physics. Time-travel, to be precise." Dumbledore grinned and bounced on his toes like a child who had at last found the hider in a game of hide and seek.

"Just a passing interest really," she shrugged off hesitantly, bending to retrieve the book and quickly reshelf it. "It's a great subject to read when you can't get to sleep," she added, feigning a deep yawn.

"I see," Dumbledore nodded sagely, though it was obvious he didn't accept this excuse. Hermione got the impression that he'd overheard enough of her one-sided conversation to understand exactly why she was reading books on time-travel in the middle of the night. "Tell me, Miss Buchanan, how is it you came to be in this time?" He leveled his cool, blue gaze upon her, making Hermione squirm.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Professor," she muttered in defense, her voice weak. Dumbledore merely quirked an eyebrow and rocked on the heels of his feet.

"If you tell me the method of travel, I may be able to tell you the type of mutable timeline you have created by your presence here. Certain types of magic affect the outcome, you see." He took a step forward; turning his attention to the line of books that discussed the very subject they were speaking of. "I may also be able to tell you if it is possible to return you to your time."

"Professor, I really don't know –"

"For example, if the method of travel included a form of alchemy, the timeline is, in fact, immutable. If it included a spell or curse, a change in the past will result in a future that is part of a parallel universe. But the sands of time…If the sands of time were used, the future is what you make it."

Hermione suddenly laughed, though not in delight. It would just figure…

"And if the method included both a curse and the sands of time?" she asked, her voice full of consternation. Dumbledore blinked rapidly, seemingly stumped by the question.

"That presents an interesting problem. The solution will, no doubt, require further study."

"No doubt," Hermione muttered wryly, straightening her crumpled robes and looking anywhere but at the older wizard.

"I will make you a deal, Miss Buchanan," Dumbledore spoke after a brief moment of awkward silence. "I will help you discover the solution and find a way home in exchange for the right to study your case."

"I will tell you nothing of the future!" Hermione exclaimed in a vehement whisper.

"I expect you to do no such thing. I merely wish to examine the details of the events that transpired to bring you here, as well as the components. I also require that you answer a few questions – not related to the future of course. I wish to publish my work for the betterment of wizarding knowledge, but I will, of course, keep your identity anonymous."

"I don't need your help," Hermione muttered, less than thrilled with the prospect of becoming little more than a lab rat. "I was the brightest witch of my age."

"Yes, I have no doubt of that," Dumbledore agreed with a nod, his eyes twinkling behind half-moon frames. He folded his hands demurely across his stomach and tilted his head to the side. "I will not publish my work, if you so wish it, though this knowledge will be a great loss to our world."

"This knowledge could get me killed if the wrong people were to find out the truth," Hermione countered, her hands shaking with fear and rage.

"I see…"

"No, you don't. You only see power and glory." She tilted her chin up at the look of surprise that danced across his aging face. "You forget, I know your future and I know your past, probably more intimately than most of your closest acquaintances can even claim. _For the greater good._"

"The past is just that, Miss Buchanan," Dumbledore spoke somewhat stonily, obviously disturbed by her knowledge of his past transgressions. "I harbor no more delusions of power or dominance. I only seek to better knowledge and mold young minds."

Hermione let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, her shoulders slumping in defeat. She knew that despite his many flaws, in the end, Dumbledore really wasn't the threat. Voldemort was.

"Your assistance would be greatly appreciated, Professor," she murmured in concession.

"Excellent!" Dumbledore clapped his hands, the boyish grin once again returning to his face. "Now, as the hour is quite late, and I assume that you would like to get whatever sleep you can before classes resume, might I suggest we begin tomorrow evening?"

Hermione nodded, not trusting her voice to speak. She was full of emotion – regret and relief the strongest. She regretted involving another person, especially since one wrong word spoken could turn Riddle against her and destroy everything she was working for. At the same time, however, she was relieved to not have to shoulder the burden alone. While Dumbledore worked toward finding a way for Hermione to get home, she could concentrate all of her efforts on ridding the future of Voldemort once and for all.

One way or another.

* * *

**AN**: I'm extremely frustrated by this extremely crappy chapter – especially since it is so short. I do consider it an accomplishment that I actually pooped something out. I will endeavor to better the chapters from here on out. I don't need any flames. I have a funeral to attend this week and the last thing I need is irate readers bitching me out about my crappy update. Sorry, mourning makes me grumpy. 


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Disclaimer: **I barely own myself.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **Despite the fact that I have no idea where to go with this story, I'm soldiering on. Maybe, as so often is the case, my fingers will take on a mind of their own and create amazing chapters that result in an amazing story. If not, well, that would really suck. Thanks, again, to everyone who reviewed. You're the only reason I even bother.

* * *

"Even though my journey here was a complete accident, I've come to realize that I have an extremely important task to complete. One that will save the future – I hope," Hermione explained, waving off the tin of candy that Dumbledore held before her. "I'm not sure I even want to bother if it means the future that I know will not be affected at all," she added in a quiet whisper. 

Dumbledore arched his eyebrows and sat back, steepling his hands over his chest and gazing with curious eyes at the young woman who sat before him. She presented an interesting challenge – her circumstances, her sense of morality, the secrets surrounding her very existence. He did not lie when he said he'd ask nothing of the future – knowing too much of ones own future always resulted in disaster, and he was quite content with his path in life at the moment, thank you very much. But he did want to help her in any way he could, and maybe learn something new in the process.

"I can not being to imagine the future you came from that would require whatever form of self-sacrifice you envision," he began cautiously, choosing his words carefully. He did not want to alienate the young woman with his advice or opinions, but he wanted to make sure that she knew she didn't have to shoulder the burden alone, if she so chose. "Whatever task you have set for yourself tortures your conscience, that much is obvious. On the one hand, if you hesitate, for any reason at all, you may lose your only chance to make a difference," he pointed out sagely, to which Hermione nodded in agreement, worrying her bottom lip. "But if you invest everything in this endeavor, and it all turns out for naught, that could very well destroy you," he paused, frowning at the deep pool of sadness that suddenly welled in her chocolate eyes. He sighed softly. "In the end, the only advice I have to offer is to follow your heart. It will lead you on amazing journeys."

"Where have the days gone when a simple 'yes' or 'no' would have sufficed?" Hermione lamented with a weary sigh. Dumbledore chuckled, earning a half-hearted smile from the young woman. "You're right. About everything. Of course," she snorted in wry amusement. The old wizard was _always _right, even if she didn't agree with it or didn't want to believe it. She heaved another sigh and pushed to her feet. "I'll never forgive myself if I don't at least try," she admitted softly as she reached around her neck and unclasped the chain that held the remnants of the time-turner. She'd never removed it before this day, and hadn't thought to ever, but she had no doubt that Dumbledore would need to study it in order to find the answers they sought. She silently passed the chain, which he took in slightly trembling hands, his eager eyes dancing over the glinting gold, the jagged edges, and the barely discernable shape of an hourglass.

"I will begin my work immediately, Miss Buchanan," he murmured, already pushing to his feet and shuffling over to an overstuffed bookshelf and pulling out a variety of ancient tomes.

"And I will begin mine," she murmured in reply. Dumbledore didn't look as if he heard her words, so absorbed in work was he, so Hermione retrieved her bag and slung it over her shoulder, exiting the office quietly and stepping in to the dark hall beyond. It was late and she would have to hurry if she didn't want to be caught out after curfew.

As Hermione hurried through the mostly empty corridors, her mind raced with possibilities. Slowly, a plan began to form. It was rudimentary at best, and if her emotions weren't already so invested in the project, she knew she no doubt could have conceived of something more brilliant, but at the moment, it was the best she could hope for.

Hermione dashed in to the Ravenclaw common room just as the chimes rang out. Out of breath, she stumbled up to her dorm, dropping her bag in to her trunk and falling on to her bed. She was the only one in the room at he moment, the other girls still in the common room for one reason or another.

After a while, when she knew she didn't have much time before her solitude was interrupted, Hermione rolled of the bed and returned to her trunk. Retrieving a sheet of parchment, her favorite quill and a bottle of rich, dark brown ink, she moved to the small desk beside her bed and sat. With meticulous care, she set up everything she had collected, then picking up her quill, dipped it in ink and stared at the blank paper before her.

And went blank.

Growling in frustration, Hermione roughly dipped the already saturated quill in the inkwell, as if that action alone would bring the perfect words to the paper. They didn't. It seemed an eternity before she finally set nib to parchment and began to write slowly, carefully.

_Tom,_

_My middle name is Jean. My favorite color is lilac, which, coincidently enough, also happens to be my favorite flower. I was born in September the 19__th__ to be precise (and writing this, I just now realized that my birthday is next week. Odd how things escape your mind.). I used to have a cat named Crookshanks, but I was forced to abandon him when I moved. My two best friends are both men. And they're both dead. _

_Tell me something about yourself._

_Hermione_

It was a pathetic excuse for a letter, and she knew that divulging so much personal information about her self could spell disaster – but she also knew the only way she was going to get the future Dark Lord to open up to her was by opening up herself. Whether or not he took the bait was another question entirely.

Hermione stared at the words on the page for a long moment, wondering if she should even bother sending it. It was a coward's way out. She was too afraid to have this sort of conversation with Riddle in person, and she knew it. But it was a start.

Before she could lose her nerve, Hermione walked to the open window and thrust her wand out, summoning a school owl. It came whizzing around the corner turret moments later, agitated squeaking accompanying it the entire way. When it landed on her outstretched arm, it wasted no time in nipping her angrily.

"I'm sorry," she snapped at it, earning another nip for her efforts. Grumbling at the irate bird, she quickly fastened the rolled piece of parchment to its reluctantly outstretched leg. "Take this to Tom Riddle immediately, please," she instructed in the firmest voice she had. After it gave another angry nip, it took off through the open window and dived toward the owl's entrance to the dungeons. Hermione nodded in satisfaction, a weird, eager sensation filling her stomach with jittery butterflies as she returned to her bed and curled in to a ball.

It would be a long while before sleep claimed her.

* * *

"_Once the tear is complete, it is imperative to seal the fragment of soul in the chosen container immediately, lest it become lost in the void forever. Once the soul is attached, the Horcrux is complete and cannot be destroyed by ordinary means. Only the most lethal of poisons can tear the soul from its chosen container. Basilisk venom is known to be one of these poisons."_

"Yes, yes, I know all of this!" Tom exclaimed, slamming the book shut and tossing it aside. "What I want to know is how many times you can tear the soul! I need to know the number!" He glared at the book, sitting innocently on the floor beside his bed. The upside of being Head Boy was having his own dorm, and being able to scream obscenities at Dark Arts books was quite refreshing.

He was sorely tempted to _Incendio _this particular infuriating volume. A gentle tapping at his door saved the book for the time being. Scowling, he stalked over and wrenched open the door with more force than necessary. The owl that was hovering outside gave an angry hoot and unceremoniously thrust its leg at the angry Slytherin.

Perplexed about who would be sending him a letter at this hour, Tom removed the missive from the owl then slammed the door before it could hoot for a treat. Carefully, he unrolled the parchment, eyeing it warily all the while.

With it fully unrolled, the elegant cursive script caught his attention immediately. Curious, he let his eyes rove over the words written carefully in rich brown ink.

His eyebrows shot up.

"What in Hades?" he muttered, reading the letter again, and then for a third time. "What is she playing at?" Falling in to the chair before his desk, he set the parchment on the surface and continued to stare, analyzing the words and trying to find the hidden meaning beneath. Try as he might, he couldn't find any sinister connotations, hidden meanings or deeper agendas. It was just a letter. Plain and simple.

Hermione Jean Buchanan. Born September 19… Was she turning eighteen or nineteen? At least, if nothing else, this random letter would provide him with more information to learn more of her past. He resolved to pass the information on to Malfoy to aid in his search.

_Tell me something about yourself._

"Does she truly expect a reply?" he muttered after a while, his tired eyes reading the last line again. "This is absurd," he added, shaking his head in disbelief. Favorite color? Favorite _flower._ So like a woman, he thought with a scoff.

Even as the thoughts entered his mind, his hands moved of their own volition and pulled out a blank bit of parchment and dipped a quill in emerald ink.

_Hermione,_

Tom paused, slightly shocked that his subconscious had driven him toward beginning a reply. Ink dripped slowly off the end of his full nib, dotting the paper beside her name as he contemplated what to write. He decided to start with the truth.

_I found your letter absurd and disturbing, and I am barely deigning myself to formulate any kind of response. With that being said, my middle name is Marvolo, my favorite color is emerald, flowers are for girls, therefore I have no favorite, I was born on December 31, so my birthday is not for some time – not that it matters – you've already met my owl, Napoleon, and I haven't the time for friends, dead or alive. You've just made me write the longest run-on sentence than I ever thought possible. Yes, I blame you. _

_Leave me alone._

_Tom_

Satisfied with his response, Tom rolled the parchment and sealed it with a black ribbon transfigured from a feather that had moments before fallen from his quill. Napoleon instinctively knew that he was needed and after unburying his head from beneath his wing, flew over to the outstretched arm of his master. After expertly fastening the letter to the owl's leg, he opened his door and watched the creature fly away.

The best way to gather intelligence on someone was from the individual in question, Tom thought with a smirk. He'd play along with whatever game she fancied they were playing, if only to gather more information and learn the truth about Hermione Buchanan.

Intrigued by this new set of events, Tom shed his uniform and fell back on his bed, arms beneath his head as he stared up at the black canopy, his mind racing.

Sleep would be a long time coming.

* * *

Hermione was just beginning to doubt that Tom would ever reply when a light tapping sounded at her window. Heart jumping in to her chest and beating rapidly, Hermione slid carefully from her bed, careful not to wake her sleeping dorm mates as she padded across the hardwood floor and gently eased the window open. 

"Good evening," she whispered to the owl, which she recognized as Riddle's. A smile of triumph shone across her face as she gently removed the scroll from his outstretched leg and offered him an owl treat that one of the other girls had sitting on their desk. He nipped her finger gently, unlike the irate owl from earlier in the night, and sat on the open sill, watching her intently.

Eager to read her letter but mindful of the other sleeping girls, Hermione crawled on to her bed and pulled the curtains securely shut before casting a silencing spell. If something in the letter provoked any noise from her, she didn't want it to wake anyone. Nobody needed to know of her interest in the Head Boy.

It took all of Hermione's willpower to not unroll the parchment with enough force to tear it apart. Taking a deep breath, she let her eyes rake hungrily over the paper, noting the deep green color of the ink and the slightly untidy scrawl that suggested the words were written hastily.

She couldn't hold back the laughter as she finished reading the letter. Blaming her for a run-on sentence? Classic, she thought with a snort. She knew all of the other information he'd given, save the name of his owl, but having it come directly from the source rather than a third party was different. She wondered how many other people he'd told the things he'd written to her in this letter.

Perhaps she was thinking too much of herself, thinking she was special to receive this kind of response, but Hermione didn't think Riddle was prone to sharing information about his life, things that could be used against him in the future or things that others could misconstrue as weakness. So why _did _he tell her?

Maybe she shouldn't question it.

With a grin plastered across her face, Hermione reached through the seam of her curtains and rummaged in her trunk for some more parchment, this time opting for a muggle pen, since she didn't have anything to balance an inkwell on. She nibbled on the end as she contemplated what to write.

_Tom,_

_If you think I'm going to leave you alone that easily, you are sorely mistaken. I'm far too intrigued to stop now. Why am I not surprised that your favorite color is emerald? You are a Slytherin to the core, though I'm sure you take pride in that. And I'll have you know, I wrote your birthday on my calendar. Expect a present of some sort (though I make no promise of its usefulness)._

_I rather liked learning a few new things about the Head Boy, and maybe I'm a bit delusional to think that you rather liked learning a few new things about me. How about a few more? I hate the school uniforms. I'm petrified to fly on a broomstick. My parents were killed in the war. I have a less than healthy obsession with chocolate, and I can bake a killer batch of chocolate chip cookies – my grandmother's recipe. I can't dance – not even a little bit. It's rather embarrassing, really, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't share that fact with anyone else. I've never been made breakfast in bed, though I've dreamed of it._

_What else? I think that's all the information I'll divulge in this letter. You better be as equally forthcoming. _

_Hermione_

Napoleon was at her side in a second, holding out his leg for the letter that Hermione was just finishing rolling. She smiled at the intuitive bird and fastened the missive. The butterflies returned to her stomach as she pulled the curtains aside and watched the owl take off out the window. Biting her bottom lip, Hermione wondered, not for the first time, if she was doing the right thing.

Crawling back on the bed, she burrowed beneath the covers and stared through the part in the curtain, out the window beyond, wondering if she would receive a second reply tonight, or if he would wait until morning – if he even wrote back at all.

A deep yawn sounded in the silence and Hermione realized with a start that it had come from her. Snuggling in to the blankets, she was just about to succumb to sleep when she felt something land on her hip. Peeking out over the edge of the blanket, she spied Napoleon perched like royalty, a roll of parchment attached to his leg. She wondered, briefly, if he had returned with her own letter, until she realized the shade of parchment was not only different, but it was also sealed with another black ribbon.

Smiling sleepily, she sat up and untied the letter from the owl's outstretched leg.

"Thank you, Napoleon. I think I'll be too tired to write a reply tonight, so you don't have to wait around for one," she murmured, knowing that the smart bird would understand her. It tilted its head in understanding before taking off once more.

Unable to mask another yawn, she stretched as sleepy fingers unfurled the letter. Tired eyes drank in the slightly less messy scrawl.

_Hermione,_

_And if I'm not as equally forthcoming? What will you do then? You're lucky I'm in a giving mood tonight, or I might have taken your order for insolence. And I shall take your Slytherin remark as a compliment, whether or not it was meant as such._

_I believe the school uniforms bring order and are neat and precise. I too detest flying on broomsticks. For that matter, I see no point in this sport they refer to as Quidditch. My mother died at birth and I was raised in an orphanage until this summer, when I went to live with my father – whom you've met. I have to admit that I also have a rather unhealthy obsession with chocolate, and though I rather excel at potions, I cannot cook. I taught myself to dance (and if you tell anyone __**that **__you'll wish we had never crossed paths) and I fancy myself rather good at it. Perhaps all you need is a few private lessons? _

_I'm rather a fan of Shakespeare, and that is a fact I would have preferred to take to the grave, so I haven't the faintest idea why I told you. I would appreciate your discression in this matter. _

_It's well past midnight and we do have classes in the morning. I ask that you not bother me again until then. I'd prefer to get some sleep, thank you very much._

_Tom_

Hermione was shocked that not only did Riddle know how to dance, but was an admirer of Shakespeare – a _muggle _poet and playwright. It was odd to find that they had something in common, though she'd be hard pressed to find someone who did not like chocolate. Still – it was nice to know that he wasn't above such frivolities.

A deep yawn escaped her lips. Exhaustion was claiming her and fought to close her eyes. Struggling against the tide, Hermione stashed both letters in a hidden compartment of her trunk before snuggling back in to the blankets.

She was asleep in seconds, a soft, contented smile on her face.

* * *

**AN: **So, Tom and Hermione are getting to know a little more about each other, which is always a plus. I'd love to hear your feedback. Any ideas or suggestions you may have would be great. I'm always on the lookout for fresh ideas. Leave me some love! 


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Disclaimer: **There is no point in claiming ownership over anything.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **A few people have pointed out that Riddle seems too out of character because his soul is all torn up and whatnot. I just have to point out that if you refer to the beginning of the story, you will see that three of the murders that tore his soul irreparably were not committed. The only murder on his soul is Myrtle, and he will begin to feel remorse about that, which is the one thing that can heal a torn soul. I'm allowed a little leeway with the way I make him now. YAY! Anyway, I just want to send a huge thanks out to everyone who reviewed. Your feedback is greatly appreciated.

* * *

"How did you acquire this information?" Malfoy asked, his voice full of incredulity as he stared at the parchment with Hermione's full name and birthday, as well as a few other potentially important details hastily scribbled across it. Tom scoffed and folded his arms over his chest.

"I have my own sources, Malfoy," he replied smoothly, grazing over the fact that his source was, in fact, the woman in question. That would remain his secret for the time being. "Use that information and dig up what you can. I want to know everything about Hermione Buchanan," he ordered imperiously. Then, his eyes darkened, his voice growing considerably more menacing. "And you better not fail me this time, Abraxas."

"Yes, My Lord," Abraxas muttered somewhat darkly, clutching the parchment in his fist and marching off down the hall in the direction of the Owlery.

Tom watched the other Slytherin stalk off, his body stiff in obvious anger at the rebuke. He didn't care if Malfoy was angry – he only cared about the blonde boy getting the job done.

As he was turning to leave the dark corridor, something suddenly gnawed at his stomach. It was an odd feeling, a mixture of burning in both his stomach and chest that left a bad taste in his mouth. His mind automatically flashed to an image of Hermione, laughing with Neptune Lovegood at the Ravenclaw table, and the burning in his torso intensified. Suddenly, it dawned on him.

Guilt. He was feeling guilty about delving in to her past. Which was absurd, because Tom Marvolo Riddle _never _felt guilty about anything. Not even Myrtle's death.

His stomach clenched as the memory of that fateful night flashed once again through his mind. The look on the weeping girl's face as she realized what was happening to her, and the jolt of surprised excitement that had rushed through his body.

"No, no," Tom shook his head, stumbling in to a wall and clutching at the cool, damp bricks in an effort to anchor himself to reality. "No, I will _not _start to feel guilty about ridding the world of _that _filth!" he exclaimed vehemently, head still shaking as if to rid himself of the irksome memories. One hand flew to his stomach, clawing at it, as if that action alone would remove the burning that still flared.

What the hell was happening to him? It felt like his soul was being torn apart, the very core of him being ripped in two. Then words from an ancient dark tome suddenly flitted through his mind.

"_Only the most evil of acts can tear a soul in two. Murder. When murder is committed, intentional or not, a tear in the soul is made. In many cases, when murder is accidental or an act of war, remorse is felt immediately and the soul is just as quickly repaired. For those who feel no guilt over the act, the tear can become permanent. It is in these instances that the best Horcruxes are made. However, feeling remorse can, in fact, repair the torn soul days, months, or even years after the murder was committed and the soul torn." _

Was this sudden feeling of guilt making him feel remorse about Myrtle's death, Tom wondered as he continued to claw at his stomach. The burning only intensified. Was his soul actually being repaired, rather than torn? Why was this happening now? One little feeling of guilt about digging up Hermione Buchanan's past had spawned this? Was that even possible?

The questions continued to race through his mind as the burning finally began to subside. Gasping for breath, Tom slowly straightened, realizing with shock that the pain had made him double over. Swiping at his damp brow, he frowned, taking deep lungs full of air. He felt like he'd been drowning and had only just broken the surface of the water.

And for the first time in months, since he released the Basilisk and the subsequent death of Myrtle, he felt _light._ _'I'm sorry, Myrtle,'_ the thought, unbidden and unwelcome, suddenly popped in to his mind. Tom shook his head clear of it and glowered.

His lips tasted salty. Frowning, he realized that his cheeks were wet, and not from sweat. Raising a shaking hand, he pressed fingers to his cheek and pulled them away, staring in slight awe at the wetness now trickling down his fingers. Was he _crying? _

Hastily, and with more force than necessary, he whipped away the rogue tears and tried to rid himself of all traces of the proof of his sudden unwanted emotion. He was Tom Riddle – Lord Voldemort. He did not feel guilt, he did not feel remorse, and he most certainly did not cry. Ever.

It was Hermione and those blasted letters. Making him open up and start feeling things he'd have been just as happy to never have felt. It was all her fault, he thought with a scowl, pushing away from the wall and stalking out of the empty corridor and in to the bustling ones beyond.

A couple of Gryffindors crossed his path and he wasted no time in shoving them aside, caring not that they stumbled in to a gaggle of Hufflepuffs and created a domino-like effect.

He was on the warpath.

* * *

She felt as if she'd read those letters a million times. Analyzing every sentence, every detail, for anything that might help her save Tom Riddle.

Odd how she suddenly wanted to save him, rather than destroy him.

Hermione sighed and let her head fall back, staring up at the ceiling of the dorm. She was getting nowhere fast. Tom Riddle was still as much an enigma as before they started exchanging letters. It had been only a couple of weeks, sure, but in that time, she'd managed to collect a shoebox full of acerbic, witty, reluctant replies. She knew more about the future Dark Lord than she'd ever imagined possible, but at the same time, she didn't know anything.

She had yet to find something big enough to work with. Tom Riddle was just another… teenager. Granted, he was full of hate and assumptions that had the potential to turn him in to the evil, mass murdering Dark Lord she knew and loathed, but he also had the potential to do the one thing his future self never had. The Tom Riddle she had grown to know and grudgingly like had the potential to love – if he left himself.

Could she, Hermione Granger, know-it-all _mudblood_, teach Lord Voldemort to love?

Before she could even ponder the possibility, a loud banging reverberated throughout the dorm. Frowning, she hastily shoved the letters back in to their hiding spot and smoothed down her robes. The banging sounded as if it was coming from the common room. Following the sound, she exited the dorm and ran down the steps. Ravenclaws were staring in shock at one another, heads swiveling back and forth between the entranceway and each other. No one moved, unsure of what to do.

Suddenly, a voice loomed out of the banging, slightly muffled by the thick stone statue that barred the way.

"I KNOW SHE'S IN THERE!" it bellowed, full of anger and rage. Hermione's mouth dropped open in shock. That voice definitely belonged to Tom Riddle.

"Who is he looking for?" she asked Balraj Patil, another seventh year who had already been in the common room when she'd run down. The grandfather of the twins she had grown up with turned his head and looked at her with wide eyes.

"You," he whispered, wincing as the word slipped past his lips. He looked as if he wanted to take it back, but nothing could deny the truth. Especially since Riddle was now screaming her name at the top of his lungs. Hermione's heart skipped a beat.

"HERMIONE! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE! HERMIONE!" he yelled over and over. She winced. She had no idea what she had done to incur his wrath, but it couldn't have been anything good. Hermione sighed and started forward. A hand clamped down on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks.

"Don't go," Balraj murmured, shaking his head emphatically. "Riddle's making enough noise to attract at least one of the Professor's attention. Let them handle him."

"It's all right, Bal," she said with more reassurance than she really felt. She offered him a halfhearted smile. "He won't hurt me. Too many witnesses," she winked, shrugging his hand off her shoulder.

"Don't underestimate him, Hermione," Bal called out to her retreating form. "He's a dangerous one."

Hermione stopped and turned, her eyes full of sadness as she looked at the group of teenagers staring at her with varying looks of shock, respect, fear, and understanding.

"He's not dangerous, Balraj," she murmured softly, the words barely carrying on the stale air. "He's just misunderstood." Hermione didn't wait to hear his reply. Taking a deep breath to steal herself, she pushed open the statue and climbed out in to the hall beyond.

"Tom?" she tilted her head to the side, leveling a questioning gaze on the fuming man standing before her. It was the first time they'd stood face to face since the beginning of the year – avoidance had become commonplace since they'd begun exchanging letters. It was as if they were embarrassed to face the one person in Hogwarts that knew the most about them. At least, that's how Hermione reasoned her avoidance of the Head Boy.

"You!" he exclaimed, breathing heavily. He paced back and forth, hands on his hips, shooting glares at her every other step. Hermione quirked an eyebrow and folded her arms over her chest.

"Yes?" she countered, tapping her foot in impatience. The sight of the riled up Slytherin was probably more amusing to her than it should have been, but with his stormy eyes full of emotion and usually perfectly coiffed hair flying every which way, it was hard to take his anger at her seriously.

"You!" he shouted again, this time shaking a finger at her menacingly. Hermione snorted and shook her head.

"Very eloquent," she commented with a smirk, earning a growl from the frustrated boy. A few onlookers dared hesitant chuckles at their exchange, but at the sudden appearance of Tom's wand and the angry red sparks flying from its tip, they quickly quieted and dispersed. They didn't want to be caught in the middle of a wand fight.

"It's all your fault!" he suddenly shouted, a step up from the accusatory 'you!' he'd seemed to have been attached to. He stomped his foot like a child in the middle of a tantrum. Hermione shook her head and let her hands fall to her side, walking over to Tom and looping her arm through his.

"Yes, of course it is," she coddled; much like she had with the five-year-old Pearson boy she babysat the summer before her fifth year. Tom looked at her in shock and allowed himself to be led out of the hall and through the corridors.

"Don't coddle me," he muttered darkly, though he made no move to pull away. Hermione merely smirked and continued to pull him toward the Astronomy Tower. The sun was just beginning to lower on the horizon when they stepped on to the roof. The sight was breathtaking and brought a smile to Hermione's face. Stepping away from the still fuming boy, she walked toward the ledge and watched the sun slowly dip further behind the trees. When she finally turned, she was shocked at what she saw.

Tom Riddle was glowing.

Hermione blinked, wondering if it was just a trick of the light. When blinking did nothing to rid her of the image she saw, she moved about the tower, wondering if it was the angle she'd been standing at. He continued to glow. After a few moments, however, the glow began to fade.

"What happened to you?" she whispered in awe. Her mind ran through the various books she'd read since entering the wizarding world and not one could explain the phenomena she'd just witnessed. Hermione had to wonder if she was going crazy.

"I don't know," Tom muttered in reply, wondering what had provoked the awed look on the young woman's face. "But whatever it is, it's all your fault," he added, remembering that he was supposed to be on the warpath and was, in fact, very angry with the Ravenclaw standing before him.

"Explain," Hermione ordered, uncaring of the look of fury that suddenly crossed Riddle's face. She needed to analyze everything that had happened up until this moment to gain a clue in to what had caused the future Dark Lord to glow, of all things.

"You," Tom started, and then hesitated. She couldn't know what had happened with Malfoy, and then the truth about Myrtle. She couldn't know that he was a murderer. He frowned. "Something happened and it made me think of your damn, insufferable letters, and I felt guilty. You made me feel guilty! I've never felt guilty about anything! Everything I've ever done was completely justified, and suddenly, the mere thought of you has me feeling completely and irreversibly guilty. And then do you know what happened?" he seethed, his chest heaving with emotion. Hermione was shocked and tried to say something, but Tom cut her off, so absorbed in his rant that it was if she didn't exist. "I felt remorse! REMORSE! And the pain that caused! It burned! I felt like I was being torn in two. I could barely stand upright! And I cried! I CRIED! I never cry! Tom Riddle does not cry! And it's all your fault!" It all spilled out in one breath. He couldn't have stopped even if he wanted to – and he did. He'd never intended to reveal that much to her. What she must think of him now. He scowled and turned away, refusing to meet her eyes.

"Wow," Hermione said, blinking rapidly as her mind raced to absorb everything he had just said. The word _remorse _kept ringing through her head, drudging up memories and long forgotten tidbits of information. Remorse was the one thing that could heal a torn soul.

And suddenly, everything clicked in to place. The 'something' that had happened, the feelings of guilt and remorse, the subsequent pain, and even the glowing.

Tom Riddle had healed his soul.

Hermione laughed. It was joyous and tinkling and floated on the air, kissing every corner of the horizon. Before she could stop herself, she was throwing her arms around Tom and hugging him close. She'd never felt more happy, more _proud _in her life. Tears of happiness sprang to her eyes and dotted his dark robe with spots of wetness.

"What in Hades are you doing to me, woman?" Tom muttered, awkwardly patting the laughing, weeping woman on the back. Hermione pulled back and beamed at him.

"How do you feel?" she asked, her chocolate eyes alight with merriment. Tom blinked in confusion.

"Fine?" It came out more of a question than an answer, and he began to wonder if Hermione was losing her mind. He backed away slowly.

"Never mind," Hermione brushed it off, realizing he didn't understand what she meant. It also dawned on her that she wasn't supposed to know that his soul needed repairing. Revealing that she was privy to that much information was sure to result in disaster. She schooled her features in to calmness and took a deep breath.

"What was that all about?" Tom asked when he realized that Hermione had calmed down and was no longer acting like Neptune Lovegood's long lost twin sister.

"Sorry," Hermione started with a light shrug. "It's just, I've heard so many terrible things and when you said that you'd felt remorse, I couldn't help but realize that everything everyone's told me about you wasn't true, and that my instincts about you were right. You _are _a good person," she explained, allowing the lie to slip off her tongue. She was surprised at her own skill in crafting the fabrication on the spot, and silently congratulated herself. "I was starting to believe that I was telling my secrets to… to this terrible, evil person that everyone was making you out to be. But I was right… and they… they all just don't understand you."

Tom was slightly unbalanced by this information. He thought he played the part of charmer quite well, and had most of the student population convinced, along with the Professors. It was disturbing to realize that he'd been sorely mistaken.

And why did his heart do that funny pitter-patter thing when he realized that Hermione didn't think these bad things about him?

_'Because she's the only one whose opinion matters,'_ the thought ran unbidden through his mind. He gaped. Tom glanced up at Hermione and tried to tell himself that the thought was completely unwarranted, but when he caught sight of the brilliant smile on her face, his heart lurched. He stumbled backward, clutching his chest.

Hermione frowned.

"Tom? Are you all right?" she asked, moving forward.

"I have to go," Tom blurted out, not wanting her to come any closer. The look of pure concern in her eyes made his heart leap in to his throat and, coughing, he ran from the tower.

Hermione watched all of this in confusion. What had caused him to run away like that? And why had he been clutching his chest? Frowning, she stared at the spot he'd been standing for quite some time before finally shaking her head and leaving the roof.

As she hurried through the empty halls and back to the dorm, thoughts ran through her mind. She couldn't believe that Tom Riddle had managed to repair his soul. It was whole and good again, and that gave her the first glimpse of hope she'd had the entire time she'd been trapped in the past. All wasn't lost, after all. She grinned.

Hurrying to her room Hermione bypassed the curious stares of her housemates who wanted to know what had happened between her and Riddle. They would get no answers today.

Safely ensconsed in her bed, curtains pulled tight and charmed against intrusion, she put pen to parchment and began to write.

_Tom,_

_I'm worried about you. You ran out so fast, and you looked like you were in so much pain… Please tell me you are all right. I'd feel terrible if I was the one who caused it. That's another thing you didn't know about me – I worry about __**everything**_

_Don't leave me in the dark. I hate to see my friends in pain._

_Hermione_

Hermione stared at the word 'friend' and wondered if she should remove that sentence. Was she moving too quickly with that designation? Was he ready for a friend, or would this one sentence push him away for good? She worried her bottom lip.

Before she could second guess herself, Hermione rolled the parchment and summoned a school owl. Without any fanfare, she fastened the scroll to its outstretched leg and watched as it took off through the open window, disappearing in to the darkness.

She prayed for a response.

It felt to Hermione as if hours had passed before she finally heard the telltale whoosh of an owl entering through the open window. She parted her curtains and watched as Napoleon swooped through, landing on her leg and sticking out his own. Hermione eagerly untied the missive and unrolled the parchment with shaking hands.

_Hermione,_

_I think you're the first person who's ever given a damn about how I feel – well, except for my father's family, and that's still relatively knew itself. I'm fine. I was just shocked, I think, that you've placed so much faith in me when we've just met, and the students in this school have known me for far longer. It was overwhelming, to say the least. _

_Do you remember the first letter I sent to you? I take back what I said. I do have the time for friends._

_Yours,_

_Tom_

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**AN: **SQUEE! Even I'm moved by the cuteness of it all. Leave me some feedback! 


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Disclaimer: **I don't even own a bottle of Elmer's Glue (very long story involving a second grader's diorama on armadillos and sand) so I can't claim to own anything relating to Harry Potter.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **I only finished writing Chapter Twelve four hours ago and I'm already sitting down to start Chapter Thirteen. That is a record for me, I think. Then again, I really have nothing better to do with my time at the moment, and I find myself wanting (NEEDING) to escape to my bedroom 23 out of 24 hours in a day just to keep my sanity. So, I've only garnered a few reviews at this point, so I send out a big thanks to those few, and the few to come! I love you all!

* * *

"It's burning!" Riddle yelled, backing away and waving his hands as if warding off the catastrophe now occurring. Hermione turned from her work and snorted, shaking her head in amusement.

"You can't burn water, Tom," she replied with a soft laugh, moving over to the stove and peering in to the pot of boiling water. "It's just steam," she added, reaching over to the counter and grabbing the tin full of pasta. She held it out to him, laughing when he looked at it as if it would bite him. "Take it, pour it in, and stir. Easy, just like potions," she remarked, shoving the tin in to his reluctantly outstretched hand. Standing on the tips of her toes, she peered over Tom's shoulder and watched as he followed her directions with meticulous care. Hermione smiled.

"That wasn't so bad," he murmured reluctantly, turning away from the stove and following Hermione over to the table where she was slicing peppers. "It really is like potions," he added, watching with interest as she cut the vegetables with precision.

"Have you ever tried cooking before?" Hermione asked, perplexed. She scooped up the peppers she had just finished slicing and moved to throw them in a separate pot, already simmering with fresh tomatoes, onions, and a variety of herbs that Tom had been only too eager to help chop.

"I've never had the chance, actually," he admitted truthfully, returning to the pot of pasta and stirring. "So I guess that letter should have specified that I've never cooked, rather than that I can't."

"Well, aside from thinking that the water was burning, you're turning out to be a natural," Hermione complimented, stirring the sauce and taking a deep breath. It smelled heavenly. A tiny house elf tugged on the hem of her dress to get her attention, and offered a handful of freshly ground garlic. Hermione accepted it with a smile of thanks and tossed it in the pot.

"It is one thing to know how to prepare and stew ingredients," Tom said, his face a mask of studied indifference. "It's another entirely to know what ingredients go together. Like potions, it really does depend a lot on recipes," he finished.

"True," Hermione nodded, moving to the pasta to strain it. "But, also like potions, once you know the principal and a few basic recipes, you'll begin to know instinctively what you can put together and what you can't. At least with cooking, it probably won't blow up in your face if you throw two wrong ingredients together. It will just taste horrible."

Tom nodded, watching silently as Hermione tossed the pasta in the sauce and took the pot off the stove. Both moved quietly through the kitchen preparing the last of the meal, dodging house elves all the while. When they were finally sitting before heaping plates full of spaghetti, neither knew what to say.

"You owe me a dance lesson," Hermione suddenly blurted out, a deep blush coloring her cheeks crimson. The Slytherin looked at her in shock, fork clattering to the table, mouth still hanging open in mid-bite.

"I never offered to teach you how to dance," Tom countered defensively, his eyes growing cold. Hermione frowned.

"In your letter, you said perhaps maybe I needed a few private lessons," Hermione explained, her mind running over the letter she'd read what seemed like a thousand time. She wasn't mistaken.

"That wasn't an offer," he muttered, squirming in his seat. It was obvious to Hermione that he knew exactly what letter she was referring to. "It was merely a suggestion," he added, pushing aside his half eaten plate of spaghetti and looking anywhere but at the young woman sitting across from him.

"I taught you how to cook!" Hermione exclaimed in irritation, folding her arms over her chest in a huff. She, too, looked away. Tom scoffed, mirroring Hermione's actions.

"You only presented me with an opportunity. A hippogriff could have done what you claim to have done," he shot back, his own cheeks coloring as he realized what a pathetic argument he was posing. Hermione let out a derisive laugh and shot out of her seat, leveling a heated glare on her dining partner and supposed friend.

"You just can't say 'thank you,' can you Riddle?" she yelled, eyes alight with fury. A few strands of hair came loose from her French twist, frizzing as it so often did and giving her the look of a wild hag. Her face was crimson with frustration and anger as she rounded the table and stood within inches of the Head Boy. "Is it too much to ask for a 'Thank you, Hermione, for teaching me the fundamentals of cooking. I would love to repay the favor by teaching you a few things about dancing,'" she shouted, hands flying about to emphasize whatever point she was making.

In that moment Riddle realized, to his horror, that Hermione was beautiful when she was angry. He shot to his feet, squelching the feeling that was suddenly causing his stomach to churn and towered above her.

The fury of Hades was in his eyes and Hermione couldn't help but shrink in fear. Over the past few weeks she'd come to forget this side of Tom Riddle, and she realized with a start that he was still a dangerous young man, healed soul or not. She cowered, her chocolate brown eyes swimming with fear.

Something flashed in Tom's gray eyes at her display of fear, and Hermione watched with shock as he visibly deflated.

"Thank you, Hermione, for teaching me the fundamentals of cooking. I would," he paused, grimacing, "_love_ to repay the favor by teaching you a few things about dancing," he muttered, repeating Hermione word for word. It seemed to her as if it had pained him to say this, but she couldn't have been happier. She beamed.

"There now," she said, patting him on the shoulder, "was that really so bad?"

"Yes," Tom snapped, snatching up his dishes and throwing them in the sink, where a house-elf was currently washing the dishes they'd used to cook. Hermione had wanted to protest, but she'd bitten her tongue. A woman of the forties did not champion for house-elf rights. She barely championed for her own.

"You'll get used to it," Hermione reassured him as she cleared away her own dishes and set them beside the sink. Tom watched her with curious eyes. She spun around and flashed him a brilliant smile that sent his stomach in a whirl. Damn indigestion, he thought with a frown. "Now, about that dance," she said, raising her wand. In the breath of a moment, classical music filtered through the air. A waltz, if he wasn't mistaken.

Neither teen knew how to proceed. Hermione bit her bottom lip and lowered her head shyly, peering at Tom through thick lashes. For his part, Tom stared at the floor, toeing the ground and shoving his hands in the pockets of his uniform pants. It was a while before he finally looked up and took a deep breath. Hermione had never seen him so unnerved. It was endearing. She smiled, walking over when he motioned for her to do so.

"Right," he muttered, taking her hands and shivering immediately at the contact. He'd never imagined another person's skin could be so soft and delicate. Gently, he placed on hand on his shoulder, his own lingering over hers for perhaps a second too long, before it moved to rest gently on her waist. He held her other hand as if it was a china vase that would break if dropped and stared blankly at Hermione. She giggled.

"Nervous?" she whispered, settling in to his hold as if it were second nature. Tom's mouth formed in to a thin line as he shook his head in the negative. "I apologize in advance if I step on your toes," she added, earning the ghost of a smile at the corner of his lips.

"Knowing your character," Tom began, "my guess is that you over think the steps. You concentrate too much on getting them right that you don't stop to listen to the music. You need to feel the rhythm; otherwise, your steps will be out of synch with your partner. Hence the toe stepping," he explained, and when Hermione's face colored a deep crimson, he knew he'd hit the target on the head.

"I'm that easy to read?" she murmured in unveiled embarrassment. Tom chuckled softly, a sound that Hermione was still finding it difficult to get used to, despite having heard it a few times since that fateful evening on the Astronomy tower's roof.

"Like a book," he murmured in reply, allowing his hand to move from her waste to the small of her back, where it fit like a glove. Hermione sighed; from his touch or from embarrassment he didn't know. The thought that his touch might have provoked it made his heart do that odd pitter-patter thing and he sucked in a deep breath.

"Are you all right?" Hermione whispered, eyes searching his. Tom could merely nod in response, his throat clogged with some unfamiliar emotion. The same one he'd been feeling far too much over the past weeks, and only ever felt around Hermione. He had a horrified suspicion he knew what the emotion was, but was loath to consider the possibility.

"Close your eyes," he suddenly said, startling Hermione. She looked at him with furrowed eyebrows. "Close your eyes," he repeated, his voice softer. Hermione stared at him in question for another moment before finally taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. Tom resisted the urge to touch her face and explore every contour, every line. Pitter-patter. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. "Listen to the music," he murmured next. Hermione cocked her head to the side, seemingly taking in the strains of music now floating through the kitchen. If either had bothered to notice, they would realize that they'd gained an audience. House elves had stopped their busy work to watch the young couple, some annoyed, others delighted.

"I've always loved Mozart," Hermione commented as the melody washed over her senses. She couldn't stop the smile of appreciation that blossomed on her face.

"Me too," Tom replied with a hesitant smile of his own. Hermione opened her eyes at this, but a quirked eyebrow from her unlikely partner had her closing them again. "Listen to the music and feel the rhythm," he instructed. Closing his own eyes, he let the music block out all other sounds and allowed his body to find the tempo. "Take a deep breath," he whispered. He could both feel and hear as Hermione acquiesced. On a deep exhale he moved them in to the graceful steps of the dance.

And was promptly stepped on the foot.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" Hermione exclaimed, jumping back and covering her mouth, which was agape in horror. Tom winced, limping over to the table and falling in to a chair. "I told you I was hopeless!"

"Indeed," he muttered, pulling off his shoe to examine the damage. Finding none, he looked up.

Hermione was crying.

"What's wrong?" he asked, concern suddenly flooding his normally cold features. He shoved his shoe back on his foot and stood, stretching his foot to ease the light pain that remained.

"I've hurt you!" she exclaimed, her voice slightly hysterical as she wiped angrily at the tears flowing down her flushed cheeks.

Tom didn't know what to do. He'd never been in the position to deal with a crying woman before and it scared him to realize that he was responsible for her tears, unintentional or not. He frowned, wracking his brain for the solution to this new problem.

"I'm fine," he muttered awkwardly, moving to stand before her. She immediately fell against his chest and, unsure of what else to do, he carefully wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She cried in to his chest, soaking his white oxford. Unconsciously, he began to rub soothing circles over her back, his hands shaking slightly at the contact. "If you cry this much over a trodden toe, I can only imagine how you'd react if something serious were to happen," he remarked in an effort to lighten the situation. Hermione's crying only intensified. He felt like panicking. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Tom stifled the urge to panic and rest his head atop Hermione's. They stood there for a while, unheeding of their silent audience. After a while, Hermione's crying died down until they were left standing, quiet, in each other's arms.

"I'm sorry," Hermione murmured again, pulling back slightly and looking up at the young man who still had his arms wrapped securely around her. He was frowning, though more from contemplation than anything else.

"Accidents happen," he replied with an awkward shrug. He didn't understand what had just happened anymore now than he did when it first started, but he wasn't about to let on to that fact. "I am sorry I made you cry," he tried when a deep frown marred her features.

Hermione laughed wryly and looked away. Confused, Tom brought his hand up to caress her cheek, turning her face until she was looking at him again. When she leaned in to his touch, closing her eyes and sighing softly, Tom's heart caught in his chest. Pitter-patter.

"What are you doing to me, Hermione Buchanan?" he whispered the question that had plagued him for weeks. Hermione opened her eyes, still moist and full of some emotion he couldn't describe and gazed at him questioningly. He felt his heart lurch again, and that's when he knew there was no turning back.

Leaning forward, eyes never leaving hers, Tom pressed cool lips to soft, warm ones. The kiss was tentative and awkward at first, neither knowing quite what to do. Hermione had kissed and been kissed before, but now, with Tom, it was like the first time all over again. She felt her heart flutter in her chest and sighed in to the kiss, melting against his tall frame.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter. Tom's heart was beating so rapidly he felt like it might burst from his chest. The feel of Hermione's lips against his own was intoxicating, and he couldn't get enough. He tried moving his own experimentally and at her soft sigh, he knew he'd done something right.

When the need for air became priority, he pulled away with reluctance. Hermione had a dazed smile on her face, and he was sure that his own goofy grin matched her own.

"I have never done that before," he admitted. Hermione laughed softly, _happily, _and snuggled in to his arms.

"For a first timer, you weren't that bad," she remarked playfully, earning a half-hearted, reproachful glare. She grinned. "Still, practice makes perfect."

"And you know I have to be perfect at everything," Tom replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes. A few months ago if someone had told him that he'd meet a woman who would make him feel things he'd sworn never to feel – a self-proclaimed muggleborn at that – he would have hexed them so far in to next year that it would take them a decade to get back. But here he was, heart going wild for a woman that he had started out hating, and already questioning a vast majority of the ideals that had governed his life for the past seven years.

And he felt terrible that he had yet to stop Abraxas' search in to Hermione's past. He was digging up trouble, and he knew it. Yet something told him to keep going. Despite how strongly he felt for the young woman nestled in his arms, he couldn't bring himself to completely trust her, or anyone else for that matter.

She was hiding something big, and until he found out what, he didn't know if he'd _ever _be able to trust her. And that bothered him beyond belief.

"Sickle for your thoughts?" Hermione broke his reverie. He shook his head and offered her a distracted smile.

"It's almost curfew," he commented as if on the weather. Hermione looked up at the clock hanging on the far wall and frowned. "I should get you back to Ravenclaw tower."

"I suppose you're right," she murmured in reply, nodding and pulling out of his arms. Quickly, they gathered the few things they'd brought to the kitchen and climbed out of the portrait hole.

The halls were mostly empty, littered here and there with errant students hurrying to beat the clock to their dorms. Halfway to the tower, Hermione felt something slip in to her hand and was pleasantly surprised to realize that Tom was holding her hand. They walked in silence the rest of the way, pausing before the entrance to the tower.

"Good night, Tom," Hermione whispered, blushing softly.

"Good night, Hermione," he replied, seeming to ponder something. Just as she was about to turn and enter the tower, he grabbed her hand and spun her, his lips descending upon her own in a gentle, chaste kiss. "Sweet dreams," he whispered. Hermione nearly swooned. Unable to form words, she merely smiled and disappeared through the stone statue.

Bypassing curious stares, Hermione raced up to her dorm, nearly slamming the door shut in her hurry to reach privacy. A few other girls sat on their beds, chatting about affairs that didn't concern Hermione. Jumping on to her bed, she pulled the curtains tight and muttered a series of silencing and warding spells. She didn't want to be disturbed.

She had kissed the Dark Lord. More than that, she had _liked _it. Fisting her hands in her hair, she tugged at the thoughts suddenly swarming her mind. She was only supposed to be teaching Tom Riddle to love – she wasn't supposed to be falling in it herself!

She was so far in over her head.

* * *

Tom raced to the Head dorms, his mind racing with thoughts, replaying the events of the night. He couldn't believe what had happened. He'd sworn he'd never fall in love – look at what the cursed emotion had done to his mother! So what was this foreign emotion that was taking over his body every time he was around Hermione?

"My Lord?" a voice whispered harshly out of the darkness, startling Tom. He stopped, peering in to the shadows, his face an instant mask of indifference. Abraxas stepped out of the shadows, an eager, malicious grin on his alabaster face.

"Malfoy?" Tom quirked an eyebrow at the blonde haired boy, making no move to mask the fact that he was irritated at this interruption.

"I bring news," the other Slytherin said, oblivious to the Head Boy's annoyance. Tom growled low in his throat and grabbed the collar of his housemate, tugging him in to the dorm room. Thankfully, the Head Girl was nowhere in sight. Once inside his bedroom, he shoved Malfoy in to his desk chair and towered over the other man.

"Well?" he prompted, foot tapping in impatience.

"I was unable to locate any further information based on the details you gave me about the Buchanan girl," Malfoy began cautiously, his face scrunched up in thought. It gave him the look of a rather sick ferret, Tom mused with a mental snort of amusement. "I was about to report my lack of findings when I learned something of possible importance."

"Stop being vague and get to the point," Tom snapped, shoving his hand through his hair in frustration.

"A few days after Hermione was found on your father's estate, a man was found, strangled to death, in the woods on the outskirts of Little Hangleton," Abraxas spurted out, obviously pleased with himself.

"And this is important how?" Riddle asked, impatient to have this impromptu meeting over. The feeling of guilt was beginning to gnaw at his stomach once again. If Hermione knew what he was doing right now, she'd never speak to him again, and somehow, that thought disturbed him more than it aught.

"Muggle authorities determined that the man was killed the very same evening that your caretaker found Buchanan in your fields!" he exclaimed, obviously excited at the implications of this new information. Tom frowned as Malfoy continued. "Didn't you say she looked as if she'd been in some kind of altercation?"

"Yes," Tom replied distractedly, his mind full of the possibilities this information presented. It troubled him more than he wanted to admit that Hermione might somehow be involved in this unknown man's death. A wave of protectiveness surged through his body.

"Imagine what we could do with this information, My Lord!" Malfoy's voice was full of unbridled excitement, nearly bouncing in his seat. "The mudblood won't even know what hit her!"

"Speak of this to no one," Tom hissed, fighting back the urge to curse Abraxas for his use of the word mudblood. "This information stays between you and I for the time being. If you cross me, your grandchildren will feel the pain of my wrath by the time I'm through with you!"

Malfoy looked confused and slightly perturbed at the uncalled-for rebuke, but nodded in compliance none-the-less.

"As you wish, My Lord," he muttered darkly, clearly upset that his news hadn't been better received.

"Leave me," Tom ordered, his back turned on the other boy. He heard the squeak of movement against hardwood and the door as it opened and closed. When he was confident that Malfoy was gone, he let out the deep breath he'd been holding and sank on to the bed, head in his hands.

He was so far in over his head.

* * *

**AN: **A first kiss! And second, for that matter. Things are definitely progressing in their relationship, but trouble looms on the horizon. What will happen next? Stay tuned for the next episode of As Hogwarts Turns. :-D Let's reach 200 reviews! 


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Disclaimer: **I own three loads of clean clothes (finally!), but I don't own the Potterverse. If you tried to sue me, all you would get was said clean clothes.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **Barely hours after I posted the last chapter and again, I sit here, ready to start on the next. What is wrong with me? I'll be sitting there, bored out of my skull, and say 'Well, I can work on the next chapter…' but then another part of me says 'Already? You just posted the other one!' and then the first snaps 'Just go write and quit your complaining. It's not like you have anything better to do with your time!' And obviously, I've been listening to the first voice. I can't believe I'm on Chapter Fourteen, and I have no end in sight. I swear this thing is going to end up sixty chapters long at the rate I'm going. I should probably get some sort of plan in my mind, rather than winging it every time I set fingers to keyboard. Then again, if I did that, delicious things like random first kisses would never happen, would they? I think I'll stick with what I do best – and that's winging it.

* * *

Hermione stared at the notice informing the students that the first Hogsmeade trip of the year would take place the weekend before Halloween. A surge of excitement shot through her body at the thought of being able to visit Cormac and Hagrid. She missed the old man fiercely and the comfortable familiarity of the Three Broomsticks. Not to mention she'd been craving his famous stew for weeks and couldn't wait to fill herself to bursting.

"It's about time," she heard a voice behind her mutter. "I was beginning to think we would never get a weekend." Hermione turned, eyebrow raised at the cocky blonde Slytherin who was scowling at the notice. "This administration is a joke. If my father knew about this –"

"Have your side ventures been suffering because of restricted movement?" Hermione spoke smoothly, a knowing smirk on her face as she leaned against the wall and leveled a slightly amused gaze on Abraxas. "Trouble finding buyers for your 'trinkets'?" she asked, making no move to hide the fact that she suspected all to well exactly what he did in his spare time. Malfoy sneered at her, but made no other move. She wondered idly if Tom had said something to the other boy that stayed his wand hand now. The look on his face now told her that something had definitely been said.

"Filthy mudblood," he spat instead, his comeback as pathetic as his grandson's ever was – even if Draco had reformed, she'd never forget the petty insult that had once stung to the core, but now barely fazed her. Hermione had heard worse.

"I would think the term 'filthy' applies more aptly to purebloods like yourself," Hermione commented dryly, uncaring of the audience that had begun to gather in a circle around the pair. She saw Lucretia Black pause in the doorway to the Great Hall and winked at her. "Odd how the word 'pure' has turned in to a synonym for 'incest', don't you think, Malfoy?"

She could see that his wand arm was itching to reach for the one weapon that he had when words failed him, as they so often did. Hermione smirked, idly twirling her own between nimble fingers. She shot him a brilliant smile that told him she knew that he couldn't touch her.

"You filthy, filthy mudblood!" Malfoy spat in rage, sputtering as words once again failed him. His blonde hair flew about his thin, pointed face, which was now an unhealthy shade of red. Hermione could only roll her eyes.

"Eloquent as always, Malfoy. You're ability to articulate never ceases to amaze me," she laughed out, sheathing her wand and turning her back on the boy. "I'll tell Tom you said 'hello'," she tossed out over her shoulder. The bellow of anger that followed echoed in to the Great Hall.

Where had this boldness come from, Hermione wondered as she slid on to the seat beside Lucretia. The other girl gave her an odd look.

"What was all of that with Malfoy in the hall?" she asked, tossing her long, black hair over her shoulder when it threatened to fall in her bowl of soup. Hermione shrugged, reaching for a platter of fruit and yogurt.

"Malfoy needed to be put in his place," she replied casually, popping a strawberry in her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully, her gaze scouring the Slytherin table for the man who had invaded her heart and mind. When she didn't find him, she frowned softly. This was the third day this week that he'd missed lunch. She would have to change that.

"Still, I am quite surprised that you would risk crossing him," Lucretia commented, pushing her empty bowl aside and snatching a slice of pineapple off of Hermione's plate, grinning when her hand was swatted away. "The Malfoys are a powerful family and they are known to hold grudges," she added, this time reaching for her own platter of fruit.

"I don't scare easily," Hermione muttered darkly, pushing away her half-empty plate, appetite gone. She had faced more Malfoys in her eighteen years than Lucretia would meet in her entire life, and she'd come out on top almost every time. Abraxas was a kitten compared to what his son, Lucius, would become. At least the less-than-favorable Malfoy legacy would end with Draco.

"It's not about being afraid, Hermione," her friend murmured, anxiety in her voice. "It's about being realistic. Just be careful, all right?" Her eyes were pleading and Hermione was reminded of Sirius. She smiled reassuringly at the other girl.

"All right," she agreed softly, nodding. "We should get to class." Standing, she slung the bag she'd dropped on the bench beside her over her shoulder and waited for the young Black girl to join her.

"I have to admit, though," Lucretia was saying as they started toward the door, an amused smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, "I quite enjoyed the jab at Malfoy's 'pure' blood."

This time it was laughter echoing back in to the Great Hall.

* * *

"She will pay for that," Abraxas bit out, hurrying through the halls, his associate at his heels. A bolt of red light shot out of his wand, upending a suit of armor that had been arguing with the portrait of Sir Cadogan. "When I am through with that mudblood she will wish she had never stepped foot in Hogwarts!"

"But Lord Voldemort said –" his associate squeaked out, but was cut off quite abruptly when Abraxas shot off another angry curse, this time barely missing the floating visage of the Bloody Baron.

"Riddle is a fool," Malfoy snapped, earning a reproachful glare from the Baron before he floated away through a wall. "He has let that woman cloud his judgment and I am quite certain he has allowed her to sway a few of the more questionable beliefs that we shared," he muttered and squared his shoulders before rounding on his associate. He hesitated for a moment, as if gathering the courage to utter his next words. "I am beginning to doubt his ability to lead us."

His associate blinked in surprise, taken aback by the other boy's words. In the two years since their little 'club' had been formed, no one had dared question Tom Riddle. He was the most powerful of the group and the obvious leader – especially since he was the one who had started everything. To hear Abraxas Malfoy, Riddle's right-hand man and the most loyal of all his followers, uttering such dangerous accusations spoke volumes of Hermione Buchanan's effect on the Head Boy. The associate shuddered, afraid to agree or disagree.

"What is the next step?" the associate muttered, hurrying to keep up with Malfoy's quick strides.

"Tom Riddle can no longer be trusted," Abraxas proclaimed in hushed tones, pushing a series of bricks until a hidden doorway pushed aside, revealing a cozy sitting room where a gaggle of other students lounged, talking amongst themselves. Riddle was nowhere in sight – he'd made sure their 'leader' did not know of this particular meeting. Pausing on the threshold, he looked at his associate and spoke so the others could not overhear. "It is time to convince the Death Eaters that a new leader must be chosen. And that leader will be me." With a devilish, dangerous smirk, he swept in to the room and faced his soon-to-be followers.

Hermione Buchanan would pay for her slurs, and if he had to take down Tom Riddle in the process, so much the better.

* * *

"Miss Buchanan, would you please stay after class?" Hermione looked up from her work at the request, eyeing the Professor curiously. After a second's silent consideration, she gave a quick nod in acquiescence. Dumbledore smiled and returned to grading the scrolls sprawled across his desk.

"What would Dumbledore possibly want with you?" Tom murmured under his breath to the woman standing beside him. Hermione shrugged, avoiding his gaze. Her concentration on her transfiguration faltered and instead of changing a twig into egg, she ended up changing it in to a hairpin. She grimaced and quickly transfigured it back in to a twig and sighed. Tom watched all this with confusion etched on his brow. "Hermione?"

"I'm sure it's nothing," she finally muttered, still unable to bring herself to look at the young man who continued to steal a little more of her heart every day. She knew Tom wouldn't accept the words and fought to conjure some excuse that would make sense and get him off her back. Her mind flashed to the announcement of the Hogsmeade weekend and gave an internal sigh of relief. "I asked him about Hogsmeade. With my parents gone, I had no one to sign the permission form," she quickly lied. She shot him a smile she didn't feel. "He said he'd speak with Headmaster Dippet. Perhaps he has an answer?"

"I see," Tom said, though it was obvious he was skeptical of her explanation. He shook his head, berating himself for doubting her. "I hope you will be able to go. This will be my first year and I was rather looking forward to exploring the village with you," he remarked casually, expertly transfiguring his twig in to an egg.

"Your first year? Really?" Hermione asked, glad to have the focus off of her.

"As an orphan, I also had no one to sign the permission form," he explained, making sure Dumbledore wasn't looking before transfiguring Hermione's twig for her. "This year, I had my father to sign it, even though I think it's ludicrous that a seventh year would need a permission form to visit the local village when they are of legal age to perform magic outside of school," he added with a slight sneer. Hermione chuckled, shaking her head.

"That was my argument," she lied, clinging to whatever thread would pull them closer together. When Tom smirked at her in approval, she knew she'd said the right thing. She reached out beneath the desk and gently laid her hand on his leg, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She felt him tense beneath her touch and could hear his breath catching his throat. "Was that your vague way of asking me to Hogsmeade?" she asked with an innocent smile, even though she was all too aware of the effect her touch was having on him.

Teenage boys were all the same.

"Possibly," he nearly squeaked out. At Hermione's grin, he cleared his throat and schooled his emotions, trying to block out the feel of her hand on his leg. When she squeezed it gently, he nearly died. He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Was that your vague way of saying yes?"

"Possibly," Hermione countered with a cheeky grin. Someone cleared their throat softly behind them and Hermione realized in horror that it was Dumbledore. She snatched her hand away from Tom's leg and blushed profusely, not seeing the amused glint in the all-knowing, crystal blue eyes. Looking at Tom out the corner of her eye told her he was just as embarrassed at being caught as she was. His normally pale cheeks were tinged red and she was pretty sure he was holding his breath until Dumbledore walked away. If she wasn't so horrified herself, she would have found the sight amusing.

Hermione couldn't believe she had behaved so wantonly in the middle of class. She felt humiliated and could only wonder what Tom thought of her now. She worried her bottom lip, wanting to apologize but not knowing what to say.

The chimes announcing the end of class sounded throughout the castle, saving Hermione from the awkward apology she was about to recite. She expected Riddle to grab his bag and bolt, but was surprised when he took his time clearing away his workspace. When they were the only two remaining, save for Dumbledore, who was waiting patiently at his desk, Tom turned to her and offered a hesitant smile that looked more like a pained grimace.

"I will see you later?" he asked, an unabashedly hopeful look in his gray eye. Hermione nearly melted. Smiling in relief, she nodded. Tom turned and left without another word, his body rigid in the defensive posture she was becoming all too familiar with.

The second the Head Boy cleared the door, Dumbledore locked it and uttered a complicated silencing spell that even Hermione had never heard of. She wondered idly if it was of his own design.

"Mr. Riddle has certainly changed since the two of you became… close," Dumbledore remarked casually, though the twinkle in his eye told Hermione he not only approved, but was immensely happy. "I've noticed a marked improvement in his demeanor toward his fellow students," he added with a knowing smirk.

Hermione abandoned her things and stepped toward the desk, taking the seat he offered. She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

"Tom Riddle is a completely different person than I thought – around the right people," she replied, her face taking on a dreamy expression. "He's surprised me in more ways than one."

"Excellent!" Dumbledore clapped his hands together and grinned down at the young woman sitting across the desk from him. "I trust your task is progressing nicely, then?" he asked, his knowing eyes boring in to hers. Hermione gaped in shock. How had he figured it out?

He was Dumbledore, she told herself. _That's _how he figured it out.

"So far," she replied cryptically, unwilling to illuminate more on the subject. Dumbledore nodded, seeming to accept her reluctance to speak of her developing relationship with Tom Riddle. "May I ask how you are progressing with your own task?" she asked after a moment of content silence.

"Slowly, unfortunately," he answered, suddenly down to business. He steepled his hands on the desk and looked at Hermione over the rim of his glasses. "I've run in to a slight problem with a few of my calculations, but I've enlisted the help of a trusted friend who is an expert in alchemy," Dumbledore explained. Hermione instinctively knew he referred to Nicholas Flamel. He paused, seeming to ponder his next question. "I know you are hesitant to speak of the events that brought you here," he began carefully. Hermione instantly tensed, causing him to hesitate on his next words. When he finally spoke, it was with great reluctance. "I'm afraid I can not proceed without knowing a few more details – the type of curse used, exactly what happened after it was uttered, and everything leading up until you found yourself in this time."

"Professor," Hermione started to stand, shaking her head emphatically. It was imperative that Dumbledore know nothing of the future, and she was afraid if she gave away too much, something drastic would happen to negate her existence.

_'Not that you're not doing a good enough job of that on your own,' _her conscious chided, halting her mid-stand. She sunk back in to the chair and sighed heavily. Perhaps her reluctance to speak of the events was more a fear of drudging up the horror of that night than protecting the future.

"There was a war," she spoke carefully, startling Dumbledore, who had expected her to put up much more of a fight than she was. "I was dueling this particularly vile man who had just murdered one of my best friends right before my eyes," she whispered, her mind flashing over a memory of Ron falling to the ground. She blanched. "Another friend distracted the man, and I realized that if I could only go back a few hours, I could warn everyone that an attack was imminent," she paused, her eyes drifting closed as she relieved the moments leading up to her trip to the past. "The man saw me pull out my time-turner and knew what I was going to do. Before I could complete the turns, he hurled the Killing curse at me." Hermione shuddered at the memory, the green light flashing through her mind. She opened her eyes and locked gazes with Dumbledore, who looked shocked and unsettled. Hermione took a deep breath and continued. "It struck the time-turner and instead being killed instantly, I was suddenly falling through a seemingly never-ending void. I could see the sands of time draining from the time-turner, hovering in the blackness as I fell. And then I was lying on the outskirts of the forbidden forest, in this time – far away from death and war." She felt drained after her explanation, the force of the memories taking more out of her than she would have liked to admit.

"I am sorry you had to go through all of that," Dumbledore murmured consolingly, stroking his long, gray-tinged auburn beard thoughtfully. "That is a great burden to bear for such a young person," he added, greatly troubled.

"I would never meddle with time," Hermione was quick to explain, smoothing down her robes in an effort to still her shaking hands. "But I can't go back to that. There's nothing left for me there. Everyone I know and love is dead, and that future only holds more death and pain. I have the ability to effect great change, and if I do nothing, I'm no better than the monster that killed my family and friends."

"I see," Dumbledore nodded sagely, still stroking his beard. "I trust you do to what you think is right," he remarked after a prolonged moment. Hermione sighed and nodded in relief. "I thank you for this information. It will be a great help in solving this puzzle."

Hermione stood, wanting nothing more than to crawl in to bed and curl in to a ball. She gathered her things and walked toward the door.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore suddenly called out. Hermione paused, hand on the doorknob, and turned curious eyes on the older man. "Headmaster Dippet agreed with your argument and has granted you permission to attend Hogsmeade weekends," he said, winking. Hermione laughed softly, shaking her head in wonderment.

"Good day, Professor," she called out over her shoulder as she pulled open the door. She could hear his soft chuckles follow her out.

The halls were eerily silent as she made her way to the tower. It was an unnaturally nice day out for late October, and the soft echo of laughter floated through a window as she passed it, telling Hermione that a vast amount of the student population could probably found roaming somewhere around the grounds. Hermione smiled, wishing she could feel so carefree.

Something grabbed her waist, yanking her in to an unused classroom on the fifth floor. A hand clamped tightly over her mouth, stifling the scream that bubbled on her lips. She struggled against her captors hold, kicking with everything she had. A muttered body bind curse stilled her movements, causing an overwhelming surge of fear to shoot through her body.

"Filthy, little mudblood," a sinister voice whispered in her ear.

* * *

Tom paced anxiously across the kitchen floor, ignoring the curious house elves that stared at him in bewilderment. Hermione was late. She had agreed to meet him for dinner at eight. It was now half past eight and there was no sign of her.

He wanted to think that she had merely stood him up, but something crawled under his skin, telling Tom that it was something more. Hermione wasn't the kind of woman to stand anyone up for any reason short of severe illness and death. She was obsessive about punctuality – a trait he'd noted and admired.

So where was she now?

He wasn't about to sit around and wait for her to turn up. Grabbing his bag, he hurried from the kitchen in search of Hermione.

He only hoped he wasn't too late.

* * *

**AN: **Dun, dun, dun! Just who is Abraxas' associate? And who grabbed Hermione? Will Dumbledore ever find a way home for Hermione? Stay tuned for the next episode of All My Witches. 


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Disclaimer: **I wish I owned an antibiotic. I feel like crap. I own nothing else.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **My head is pounding. Just thought I'd throw that in there. If you haven't figured it out, I tend to take the weekend off writing. Well, Saturday, at least. So don't expect updates on the weekend, unless I'm in a giving mood. Anyway, a huge thanks as always to everyone who took the time to leave me your thoughts and input on this story. I appreciate it more than you know. Each time I see a new review waiting in my inbox, it brightens my day, so keep them coming.

* * *

"You bastard!" Hermione screeched the second the curse was lifted. She lashed out, hitting her captor with all that she had, tears streaming down her face. "You scared the living hell out of me!" she sobbed, her heart still racing with the fear that had flooded her body the instant she'd been accosted in the hall. When he made no move to fight back, Hermione dropped her hands in defeat and let out a heavy sigh, eyeing him warily. "I thought you were dead."

"Hardly," Draco scoffed, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the desk on the dais. "Snape disarmed me and hit me with a rather nasty curse that knocked me on my back, but he didn't have time to Avada me before you did some fancy piece of magic and landed us both here," he explained, watching Hermione pace furiously with raised eyebrows. "Calm down," he muttered when she nearly broke out in another bout of tears. "Can't you take a joke, Granger?"

"NO, I VERY WELL BLOODY CAN NOT!" Hermione screeched, storming up to the dais and smacking the infuriating blonde upside the head. She had to resist the urge to kick him where it would really matter. She seethed. "You grab me, you call me a filthy mudblood, you body bind me, and you drag me off to Merlin knows where, and you expect me to LAUGH IT OFF?"

"You never did understand my sense of humor," Draco remarked with a smirk, pushing off the desk and rubbing the back of his head where Hermione had hit him. When Hermione's face turned crimson he blanched, ready for another blow. When her arms wrapped around him in a fierce hug, he was taken aback. As soon as his shock wore off, he pulled her close, resting his chin atop her head. "I missed you too," he murmured in slight amusement.

"I thought I was the only one left," Hermione hiccoughed in to his shirt, hands grasping at his back as if to reassure herself that Draco was real, and not just a figment of her imagination. An image of Tom flashed through her mind in this moment, and face suffused with guilty heat, she stepped away, dropping her arms to her side. Draco noted her blush with curiosity.

"So did I," he finally replied, resolving to explore what her blush meant at a later time. Stepping back, Draco turned and faced the soiled windows, the light of the moon barely peeking through layers of dirt and grime. "Until last week," he added, memories flashing through is mind.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, falling in to a seat and running a shaking hand through her unraveled hair. She was bone weary from the gambit of emotions that had tortured her body throughout the day. Looking up, she watched Draco carefully, wondering what he had been through in the past six months. "Tell me everything."

Draco seemed to ponder her question for a long while, his icy gray eyes lost in some distant memory. Hermione forced herself to be patient. Her own story took a lot emotionally to tell, so she could only imagine what it was taking her friend. Yet again, she was hit by the wonder of his presence. She was snapped out of her thoughts when Draco finally began to talk.

"I expected to die," he started, a haunted look on his pale, pointed face. Hermione blanched. "I was laying there, waiting for the inevitable, when I realized that Snape's focus had changed. I looked up in time to see him fire that curse at you, and suddenly I was enveloped in blackness. I thought that was it – I thought death had finally claimed me. I couldn't have been more wrong," he shook his head in slight wonder. Hermione remembered her own experience in that same blackness and how her own thoughts had wondered at death. She had been wrong too. "Somewhere in that time between then and now, the pain finally got to me and I passed out. When I woke up, everything had changed."

Draco paused, tracing a pattern in the dust on the window as he gathered his thoughts. Hermione sighed softly. Despite knowing how hard this must be on her friend, her patience was wearing thin. She resisted the urge to snap at him to keep talking and took a deep, calming breath.

"I wasn't at Hogwarts anymore," he finally spoke, just as Hermione opened her mouth to urge him along. She snapped it shut, eyebrows raising in to her hairline. "The blood and carnage was gone. Hogwarts was gone, as was Hogsmeade. In fact, I found myself lying, quite literally, in the middle of an empty field. I started to think that I really was dead and in some kind of hell. I've had everything my entire life and to be suddenly stuck in the middle of nothing seemed an appropriate punishment to me." Snorting wryly, he turned away from the window and stalked over to the desk that Hermione was sitting at. He pulled a chair over and plopped down opposite her, still unable to meet her questioning gaze.

"Where were you?" Hermione asked, punctuating the silence that had once again descended.

"France," he replied automatically. "I couldn't move, I was in more pain than I could ever imagine possible, and I knew I was dying." A dreamy smile suddenly crossed Draco's face; a stark contrast to her own exhausted expression. Hermione was shocked. "And then I saw an Angel, and I knew I must be in Heaven."

"Poetic words for a Malfoy," Hermione commented, trying to snap her friend out of whatever blissful daydream had taken over his mind. Draco blushed to the roots of his white blonde hair and looked down. Hermione laughed softly. "Who was she?"

"Angel," he replied in all seriousness. "Her name is Angelique Valois. She was a nurse with the French army. Turns out I fell in a field near a camp inhabited by French and U.S. forces. She was out gathering herbs for poultices when she discovered me on the edge of death. She brought me back to the camp, nursed me back to health. They all thought I was part of the British army – because of my accent, I assume, since I wasn't wearing the British army's uniform – and had fallen in combat. I played along, because, well, I didn't know what else to do."

"Wow," Hermione murmured in awe, taken aback by his story. The last place she expected Draco to end up was an army camp. "At least it wasn't hard to play the fallen soldier, since that's exactly what you were," she commented, earning a soft smile from the young man.

"That's exactly what I thought," he replied. "Now shut up so I can finish my story," he said, earning a half-hearted punch to his arm. He shot her a playful glare and continued. "I didn't fully recover until mid-July. By this time I had pieced together what had happened that night, with the curse and what I finally realized was a time-turner, but considering that I was the only one found in that field, I assumed I was the only one to be hit by the blast of the time wave. I had no money, no contacts, and absolutely nowhere to go. So I joined the French army."

Hermione's mouth dropped open in shock. Draco tried to appear nonchalant about the revelation, but under his friend's penetrating stare, he couldn't help but squirm.

"Well, sort of," he muttered. Hermione's eyes narrowed, her foot tapping on the dirty floor in disbelief. Draco colored, his next words coming out in a rush. "Isortofkindofbecameamalenurse."

Hermione couldn't hold back the amused laughter. Draco had been absolutely horrible at healing spells and she couldn't picture the surly boy tending patiently to wounded soldiers. Draco bristled in response to her amusement.

"It was Angel's suggestion," he defended, a sour look twisting his features. Hermione forced herself to calm down, giggles morphing in to an amused smirk. Draco shot her an annoyed glare. "Anyway, we were finally granted leave last weekend and ventured in to the nearby town. It was the first time I was able to sneak away and gather information on the magical world I was cut off from. That's when I learned about the man found dead in the woods outside Little Hangleton. Since he was found in the vicinity of a known wizard's residence, the Ministry of Magic sent out a team of investigators and learned that the man was, in fact, a wizard. The copy of the Prophet I had included a sketch of the man, since no identification was found, and I was shocked to realize it was Snape."

"And that's when you realized you weren't alone," Hermione murmured in understanding. Draco nodded, running a hand through his long, blonde hair. It had grown since she had last saw him, and it suited. She smiled.

"I felt terrible for leaving, but I knew that if Snape had been caught in the blast, there was a chance that you might have been as well," he added before Hermione could say more. "I bartered passage on a portkey bound for London, then slowly made my way to Hogsmeade. Some discreet inquiries in town confirmed my suspicion, even if you did change your last name, Miss Buchanan. I knew I had to see you, so I snuck in through the Honeydukes passageway and here I am," he said, spreading his arms as if to display himself in all his glory. Hermione quirked an eyebrow and smirked.

"You left out the part where you fell in love with this Angel woman," she murmured knowingly. Draco blanched, his face turning beet red for what seemed like the hundredth time since he'd pulled her in to the unused classroom. "Did you tell her you were leaving?" she whispered, her amused smirk morphing in to concern.

"No," Draco replied, pain in his eyes. Hermione frowned. "I thought it might be easier on her if I were to just disappear," he explained.

"Loss is never easy," Hermione countered, heart going out to this unknown French woman. If Draco had fallen for her, she must have been one hell of a woman. She shook the thought out of her head. "Well, now that you've found me, what do you plan to do?"

"Help you save Riddle, of course," he replied, all business. Hermione's mouth dropped open.

"How did you –,"

"Your intentions were kind of obvious the second I found out you'd saved his father's family," he replied dryly, his cold mask once again in place. "I did a little investigating of my own in Little Hangleton," he explained with raised eyebrows. Hermione squirmed under his suspicious stare.

"What would you have done in my shoes? I can't go back to that future!" she defended, her own face flushing under the heat of his stare.

"I probably would have killed the git the first chance I got," he muttered darkly. Hermione's breath caught in her throat, afraid for the young man that she could no longer deny her feelings for. If Draco was still this angry, how could she trust that he would help her and not actually follow through on his wish to kill the future Dark Lord. "He's lucky that you got to him first," he added, confused at the pained expression suddenly crossing Hermione's face. He shrugged it off. "So, what can I do to help?"

Hermione worried her bottom lip. What _could _Draco do, aside from being a friend to confide in? She hadn't the faintest idea how to answer his question, so she shook her head and shrugged.

"We can figure that out later. First, we need to see Dumbledore and explain the situation," she said, pushing to her feet. Draco gave her a skeptical look. "He knows that I am from the future and is helping to find a way back, but he doesn't know any details, aside from the events that brought me –us – here. He also doesn't know about Snape, so I'd appreciate it if you kept that bit to yourself," she explained, picking up the bag that had been dropped on the floor when he'd dragged her in here. "He can at least get you in to Hogwarts – though I think a disguise will be needed. You look far too much like your grandfather to not raise unwanted questions."

"Ugh. I hate that old man," Draco sneered at the thought of his grandfather. "Stupidest man alive, honestly," he muttered, gathering his own satchel from the floor where he'd left it earlier. The unused classroom has served as his hiding place as he'd looked for Hermione. He followed her toward the door.

"Definitely have to agree with you there," Hermione snorted in amusement, pulling the door open a fraction and peeking out. She saw now one, but shut the door none-the-less. "Just to be careful, we should Disillusion you until we reach Dumbledore's office."

Draco saluted and pulled out a wand she didn't recognize. Remembering that he'd said he'd been disarmed by Snape, she surmised that he'd either found a way to purchase a new one, or had acquired it by other, less reputable means. When he disappeared before her eyes, she nodded in satisfaction.

"By the way," she said as she pulled the door open and stepped out in to the empty corridor beyond, an evil smirk on her face as she looked over her shoulder at where he must be standing. "I still owe you an ass kicking for what you did to me out here."

Draco's nervous laughter followed her through the empty halls.

* * *

Tom was afraid. His heart pounded wildly against his ribcage as he tore through the castle, searching for Hermione. No one in Ravenclaw tower had seen her since classes let out, and neither had the librarian. He had raced to the Astronomy tower, sure that he'd find her lost in thought, as he so often did, but the space was empty in the moonlight.

Twice he returned to the kitchen, hoping he'd find her waiting there, as planned. Twice he was disappointed. Tom sighed heavily, leaning against the locked doors to the Great Hall. A glance at the giant clock hanging over the castle's entrance told him he'd been searching for two hours.

The seed of fear blossomed, clenching at his stomach and churning the little food he had managed to eat the day. He felt sick to his stomach, and didn't know what to do.

It was time to involve the Professors. Students didn't go missing every day, so it was a serious event when one suddenly did. Pushing off the wall, he headed toward the nearest Professor's office. Dumbledore, as much as he disliked the man, would know what to do.

And that's when it hit him. Hermione had been asked to stay after by the Defense Professor. Was it possible that something had happened at their meeting to cause her leave Hogwarts?

His need to see Dumbledore turned urgent and without haste he took off toward the Deputy Headmaster's office. Racing through the empty halls, the only thought on his mind was Hermione. His beautiful Hermione.

He didn't know what he'd do if he lost her now.

Turning the corner to the Defense corridor, he slammed in to something and fell backward. Anger boiled inside him at whoever had knocked him down and he whipped out his wand without a second thought.

"Tom!" Hermione exclaimed, scrambling to her feet. His heart jumped in to his throat at the sight of her. Without a second thought he was on his feet and pulling her in to his arms, kissing her face and every bare inch of skin he could find. Relief flooded his veins, making him gasp for breath.

"Am I interrupting something?" an amused voice sounded out of the darkness. Tom pulled away and searched out the voice. His gaze landed on a tall boy leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest. The boy was tall – taller than Tom – with long auburn hair pulled back in a queue, and expressionless hazel eyes. He was lean, but he radiated an aura of power.

"Who are you?" Tom demanded, pulling Hermione behind him and reaching for his wand again. His hackles raised, he tensed as the boy pushed off the wall and waltzed right up to him.

"I could ask the same question," came the dangerous reply. "You're holding on to my friend awfully tight there," he hissed, hazel eyes flashing menacingly.

"Your friend?" Tom's eyebrows shot up in to his hairline. Hermione wiggled out of his grasp behind him and rounded on the two boys.

"I'm sorry I missed dinner," she murmured to Tom with a reassuring smile. "Dumbledore actually wanted to speak to me about Draco," she added, gesturing to the other boy who had returned to his perch against the wall. "We were neighbors and best friends before my family was killed. He was privately tutored, like myself, but he also lost his family in the bombing. He came to Hogwarts this morning, hoping to find me and also finish his education."

Tom eyed the newcomer with distaste. It unnerved him to have another male around who knew Hermione, probably better than even he could claim to know her. A seedling of doubt planted itself in his heart. Where they truly just friends, or had they been something more.

"Evidently, he succeeded," Tom muttered, squashing the doubt away for later examination.

"Indeed," Draco replied with a smirk. "Draco Valois," he introduced himself, but didn't bother to hold out a hand to shake. Tom lifted his chin in defiance.

"Tom Riddle," he replied curtly. Hermione snorted and shook her head.

"Men," she muttered, picking up the back that had been knocked to the ground and slinging it over her shoulder. She faced Tom. "Draco has been sorted in to Slytherin. Could you show him how to get to the dorms?" she asked sweetly, entwining her arm with his. Tom's heart melted at her smile. He found himself nodding, despite wanting to get as far away from this intruder as possible. "Excellent!" Hermione grinned, standing on the tips of her toes to place a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, yes. Excellent," Draco muttered dryly, once again pushing off the wall. He picked up the handle of a trunk that had been sitting on the floor, unnoticed before by Tom, and gestured for the Head Boy to lead the way. Silently, the trio made their way through the castle. When they reached the juncture where Hermione had to part ways, they stopped. "I will see you later, Hermione?" he asked, voice as emotionless as always. Hermione nodded.

"It really is great to see you again Draco," she said, stepping away from Tom, who glowered. "I thought I'd lost everything from that life," she murmured, wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him tight. He returned the gesture, smirking at the irate man behind them over her head. Riddle was jealous, and Draco was amused by this fact – especially after everything Hermione had confided while they'd spoke with Dumbledore. Perhaps the hopefully reformed Dark Lord needed a little touch of jealousy to realize what he had the potential to lose. When Hermione pulled away, he masked his features so that she wouldn't know of his instigating her, for lack of a better term, _boyfriend. _

"Dinner tomorrow?" Hermione asked softly, turning to Tom. His face instantly softened as he pulled her in to his arms and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"Absolutely," he murmured, not wanting her to know just how much her disappearance had unsettled him. It scared him to know that she had that much power over him. He reluctantly let her go, watching as she trudged toward the stairs and began to climb. "Good night, Hermione," he called out after her retreating form. She paused on the steps and flashed the two men a brilliant smile.

"Good night, my two favorite Slytherins," she sang out, amusement lacing her words. She didn't stay to see their expressions, her laughter dancing on the air as she disappeared around a bend.

Tom watched her until he could see her no more before turning to face Draco. He scowled.

"Come on, then," he muttered, loath to speak to the man. Draco followed silently, levitating his trunk behind him. As they walked quietly through the dungeon, Draco only following out of the need to keep up the charade. It wouldn't do if a supposed transfer student knew exactly how to get to the Slytherin dormitories, and it gave him time to study the young man that had the potential to destroy the future.

Draco had absolutely no idea what Hermione saw in Tom Riddle, but he was determined to figure it out. And if Riddle ever dare hurt her, he would pay.

With his life.

* * *

**AN: **I bet ya'll didn't see that one coming. Neither did I. I was eating lasagna with my family, pondering how the hell to write myself out of the gaping plot hole I created with the last chapter (how could I make Hermione's capture the climax of the story when it hasn't even reached Halloween!?) when inspiration struck. Thankfully, I was very vague in the prologue about what happened to Draco. Hermione didn't see him killed – she only saw that he had fallen. Mwah. I love stuff like that. Anyway, please leave me some love. I'm in desperate need of it. 


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Disclaimer: **I could use a fairly odd parent – then maybe I could wish that I owned this. Alas, that is the stuff of cartoons, and owning something as magnificent as the Harry Potter universe is the stuff of dreams.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **I am extremely relieved that my Draco twist was so well received – I feared that a majority of my readers would abandon me for doing that. So, I'm on chapter sixteen and it's still only October. Something tells me I should get a move on with the timeline. Hmmm… I just realized that I forgot that I had Tom in Hogsmeade at the beginning of the story, yet wrote in one of the last few chapters that he'd never been. I'm going to have to rectify that somehow…

* * *

Draco wasn't happy. In fact, the unmistakable look of disgust marring his porcelain features spoke volumes of his distaste. Sitting stoically at the Slytherin table, breakfast untouched, he was forced to endure the company of his grandfather, who was preening as he prattled on about something Draco obviously had no interest in. Hermione smirked, winking saucily as she caught his gaze. He scowled.

"My, he doesn't look happy," Lucretia murmured as she gracefully fell on to the bench beside Hermione, eyeing the new Slytherin with partially veiled interest. Hermione turned her attention to the young woman and quirked an eyebrow.

"Oh, he's not," she replied matter-of-factly. Glancing at Draco out of the corner of her eye she nearly laughed when he began to cautiously slide away from Abraxas, nodding and smiling as if to appease a mental patient. A fitting description for the elder Malfoy, Hermione thought.

"Do you know him?" Lucretia broke in to her thoughts with a questioning look. Hermione nodded as she nibbled on a slice of toast. "He is very handsome," her friend continued, her interest now clear. Hermione rolled her eyes and sighed. _'Must be fighting with Ignatius again.'_

"Yes, he is very handsome," Hermione agreed, an amused smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "And he knows it," she added, earning a playful swat from her friend. Draco looked up at that moment, catching Hermione and her friend staring at them. He quirked an eyebrow, smirking. Hermione grinned and shrugged while Lucretia turned an attractive shade of red and looked away.

"What are your plans for this weekend?" Lucretia suddenly asked, anxious to change the subject while looking like she wasn't fazed by her attraction to the 'new' boy.

"Tom and I are going to Hogsmeade together," Hermione replied automatically, for a moment forgetting that not many knew of the closeness she shared with the Head Boy. It was common knowledge that they were acquaintances, and many dared to toss around the word 'friend,' but everyone thought the cold Slytherin incapable of any positive emotion, so the notion that the unlikely pair's relationship may have evolved past friendship was never considered. It explained why Lucretia was now looking at Hermione as if she had three heads.

"When did this happen?" the raven-haired girl asked, agape. Hermione blushed furiously and refused to meet her friend's eyes.

"It's nothing, really," Hermione muttered in defense, forcing her emotions to calm. It felt like betrayal, this attempt at casually brushing off her blossoming relationship with Tom Riddle. She squirmed in her seat. "Neither of us have ever been, so we thought it might be interesting to explore it together, that's all," she added, schooling her features and smiling reassuringly at Lucretia, who looked doubtful.

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you," Lucretia began, setting down her spoon and leveling a penetrating stare on Hermione, "Tom Riddle is dangerous. Even more dangerous than Malfoy, because he has the brains behind the power." Hermione wanted to protest, but Lucretia held up a hand to stave off her objections. "Friend to friend? I don't want you anywhere near that boy. He's bad news. But I can't force you to do something you don't want to. You have possibly the most independent spirit I've ever known."

"Friend to friend?" Hermione countered, setting down her half-eaten toast, appetite gone. "Tom Riddle is unlike any boy – any man – I have ever known. He makes me feel things I never thought possible. Is he dangerous? He could be, yes. But he's not – not with me, anyway. He is seriously misunderstood and people judge him too harshly," Hermione looked up, eyes catching Tom's as he stepped in to the Great Hall. She smiled at him tenderly, earning a hesitant smile in return. She signaled that she'd be right there and turned back to Lucretia, who was frowning at her bowl of oatmeal. "You are right about one thing, though. You can't force me to do something I don't want to. And I want to keep seeing Tom." Hermione ignored the look of disbelief on the young woman's face and stood, grabbing the clutch purse that she had placed at her side. Her face softened as she once again met Tom's eyes.

As much as she hated arguing, she was beginning to realize that Tom was completely worth fighting for.

* * *

"Cormac!" Hermione shouted in glee, barreling through the crowd of eager teenagers and in to the open arms of the old man. She hugged him fiercely, tears stinging her eyes. She hadn't realized just how much she'd missed the old man.

"It's about time, lass," Cormac muttered, hugging her back just as tightly. Hermione had become like a second daughter over the months she'd spent at the Three Broomsticks, and their separation had been hard on him. "I was beginning to think they had you all under lock and key in there!"

Hermione laughed, pulling away. He hadn't changed a bit, and for that she was thankful. On the flip side, Hermione felt less and less like the lost little girl who had stumbled in to his life six months ago, and more like the young woman she thought she'd left behind.

"I was starting to go a bit stir crazy," she told him with a cheeky grin. She was about to tell him more about her new life when someone cleared their throat hesitantly behind them. Hermione turned, her face flushing when she realized that in her haste to get to the old man she'd completely forgotten about Tom. He stood stiffly, irritation clear on his face as the crowd of teens jostled him to and fro. She sent him an apologetic smile and held out her hand, which he took, his large hand warm and reassuring in her own.

And that's when the memory of her first encounter with the future Dark Lord slammed in to her mind.

"You told me you'd never been to Hogsmeade!" she exclaimed accusingly, frowning. Tom looked guilty, pulling her away from the crowd and a curious Cormac.

"I have been to Hogsmeade, but this is the first time I've actually had permission to do so," he admitted softly. His tone was apologetic but the mischievous glint in his eyes told Hermione that he was anything but. She was reminded, in that moment, of Harry. She smiled sadly. The glint in his eyes disappeared, concern flooding his eyes. "I am truly sorry," he said quickly, afraid that his untruth had upset or angered Hermione.

"I'm not upset," Hermione murmured, shaking her head. "You reminded me of a friend I lost – always sneaking around with no care for the consequences. I miss him. I miss them all," she explained softly, lost in her memories. Tom's eyes darkened with jealousy at the mention of this unknown man, but in her moment of grief, she didn't notice. She shook the moment away, taking a deep breath and forcing a smile on her face. "Thankfully, I have you. And Draco, now, too."

Tom glowered at the mention of Draco. He was still unsettled by this new addition to Hermione's life, his own position in it already precarious at best. Who knew how close the two had been before they'd been separated by war? Had they been childhood sweethearts? Did Draco expect to resume that relationship?

Anger surged through his chest, burning and tearing and leaving Tom with the feeling nauseated.

"You going to introduce your fellow?" Cormac boomed, ambling over to the couple. Hermione's face instantly brightened, her smile calming the burning in Tom's chest.

"Cormac, this is Tom," she said dutifully, looping her arm through the Slytherin's.

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," Tom said respectfully, dutifully holding his hand out. Cormac looked at him appraisingly, but did not take his hand.

"You are the young man who gave my Hermione a spot of trouble last June, aren't you?" he accused with shrewd eyes. Tom blanched at the memory.

"Yes, sir," he muttered, hand dropping to his side. He was slightly disgusted at the shame that flooded his body. What did he have to be ashamed of? Hermione had bumped in to him that day! He instantly felt guilty for the thoughts.

"What game are you playing, son?" Cormac continued, old eyes penetrating. Tom squirmed under the glare, fighting to keep his anger in check when all he wanted to do was whip out his wand and blast the old man in to oblivion for daring to question him. The only thing staying his arm was the feel of Hermione pressed against his side. She squeezed his arm, with reassurance or something else, he wasn't sure.

"I play no game," he bit out in reply, ire fighting to reach the surface. He took a series of deep breaths to calm his frazzled nerves. "Hermione and I have come a long way since that day," he added in defense.

Cormac stared hardly at Tom for a long moment. Hermione held her breath. She didn't know why, but the old man's approval meant more than she wanted to admit. Worrying her bottom lip, she glanced anxiously between the two men, urging them silently to speak. Finally, Cormac did.

"Do you love her?" The question shocked both teenagers in to stunned silence. Hermione's heart raced, afraid yet anxious to hear the answer that Tom would give. Would he say yes just to appease the old man? Would he say yes because he truly did? And if he said no? Would that mean she had failed – that he would never be able to love. Or would it mean that he wasn't ready, or hadn't quite fallen completely. Hermione's heart skipped a beat.

"No," Tom finally breathed out. Hermione felt her heart break in two and resisted the urge to cry. But then his hand was clasped firmly in hers and he was staring down at her with such intensity in his eyes that it took her breath away. "But I could," he whispered.

"Good answer, boy," Cormac laughed out, the hard lines of his face suddenly morphed in to an approving smile. Hermione and Tom broke gazes to stare at the old man in surprise. "If you'd said yes, I would have been worried. No young couple could go from hating each other to loving each other in only a couple of months!"

Hermione laughed softly, loving the old man all the more for his blunt honesty. Tom stared in incredulity, unbelieving of what had just happened. He'd been sure that when he admitted that he didn't love Hermione that she'd storm away with that amazing temper that had first attracted him. She hadn't run, though, and the old man had seemed to give his blessing.

He was still wondering on it hours later when they sat together in the kitchen sharing the meal that they had prepared together.

"What's on your mind?" Hermione asked, gazing at him over the rim of her goblet. Tom took a sip from his own and looked at her thoughtfully. Did he tell her what was on his mind or avoid the subject? He smiled hesitantly.

"You," came the soft reply. Hermione blushed under the intensity of his gaze, setting her goblet down. Tentatively, she reached across the table and clasped his hands. Around them house-elves bustled about preparing dessert while the unmistakable sounds of dinner floated down from the Great Hall.

"What about me?" she asked softly, squeezing his hand. He pondered the question for a moment before opening his mouth to answer.

"Wow! Something down here smells great!" a voice suddenly boomed as the portrait hole banged open. Hermione and Tom looked up in shock and irritation respectively, eyeing the newcomer. Draco waltzed over to their table and snatched up a roll, tearing a hunk out of it and chewing thoughtfully. "I didn't know you could cook Gra - Buchanan," he said, stumbling over her last name and nearly sending Hermione in to a panic. Thankfully, Tom didn't seem to notice the slip up.

Draco pulled over a chair and plopped in to it, ladling himself a bowl of stew before sitting back and kicking his feet up on to the table. Hermione scowled and pushed his feet off, causing the stew to splash on to his pristine white shirt.

"Awe hell!" he muttered, slamming down the bowl and snatching a nearby towel to scrub furiously at the mess before it could stain. What he didn't realize was that the towel was attached to a house elf that had been passing with a armful of pudding. When he dropped the towel, sighing dramatically, he looked up. His mouth dropped open.

Hermione had pudding dripped down the front of her blouse, plastering it to her chest. She glared, her face turning beet red with anger. Draco tried to suppress the laughter bubbling in his throat, to no avail.

"Draco, you prat!" she screeched, jumping to her feet. Her sudden movement caused a glob of pudding to fall to the floor with a noisy splat, making Draco laugh harder. Tom watched the entire exchange with an odd mixture of disgust and amusement on his normally cold face. "What are you doing here?"

"Yes, what _are _you doing here, Valois?" Tom echoed, raising an eyebrow at the other Slytherin. Draco scowled at the boy in return, earning a threatening glare.

"I don't need a reason to visit my friend," Draco hissed out, hackles raised. In all actuality, he was far less irritated than he was letting on. While he was still uncomfortable with the fact that Hermione was willingly cozying up to the Dark Lord in order to reform him, he knew it was the best way to save the future. Still, he couldn't resist a little goading.

A little jealousy could go a long way toward making a man realize his true feelings. He knew this from first hand experience. An image of Angel flashed through his mind, clenching at his heart. He missed her.

_'Understatement of the century,'_ he thought to himself with a scowl. He didn't have time to dwell on his feelings. Hermione needed his help, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

"How did you know we were down here?" Hermione asked, snapping him out of his thoughts. He looked up, watching as she took out her wand and expertly cleaned away the mess both on herself and the surrounding area. "Nobody knows we come here," she added, her voice laced with confusion.

"The student population of this castle knows more about the two of you than you think," Draco replied with an amused smirk. Hermione blushed furiously, but Tom looked disturbed by this news. He had powerful friends who had the potential to become powerful enemies. This information in their hands could spell disaster for Hermione, and that was the last thing he wanted.

"How?" Hermione asked, her tone edging on hysterical. Draco frowned.

"Malfoy has eyes everywhere," he replied. Tom shot out of his chair, anger streaking through his gray eyes. Hermione jumped in fright.

"Malfoy has people following us?" he asked, though it sounded more like a demand.

"I overheard him gloating about it to Yaxley in the dungeons yesterday," Draco answered with a nod. If Tom didn't know the actions of his own 'subordinates,' they were in more trouble than Draco thought.

"I must go," Tom muttered, grabbing his bag and hurrying from the room before Hermione had the chance to speak. She watched him go with round eyes, frightened by the fury that was in his eyes. He was still powerful, and his anger had the potential to do awful things. Hermione never thought it possible, but she feared for Malfoy.

She didn't want to be the reason for another man's death. Not again. Not like this. Tom's soul was finally healed – he didn't need another murder tearing it apart again.

Noticing her distress, Draco stood and pulled her in to his grasp. Her tears soaked his shirt for a long time after Tom left.

* * *

"Ah, Riddle," Malfoy said, his smirk deliciously evil as he took in the appearance of the Head Boy. "Right on time," he added, making no move to stand from the high seat that had only ever sat one other man. It was Lord Voldemort's chair, and the fact that Malfoy dared sit in it spoke volumes of his wavering loyalty.

Tom fumed, sparks flying from the wand grasped in his white-knuckled hand. How _dare _Malfoy usurp his position? He raised his wand, ready to blast the boy to pieces, but his denizen of followers abandoned their posts to stand guard around the pompous blonde boy. Tom was shocked.

"Don't look so surprised," Malfoy drawled, idly twirling his wand between his fingers. His perch on the chair suggested he wouldn't willingly leave any time soon. "The second you started spending time with that filthy mudblood your allegiance to our group came in to question."

"You dare question Lord Voldemort?" Tom hissed, power nearly sparking around him as his anger morphed in to something dangerous. A gust of wind whipped through the small room, despite the lack of windows. The others were unsettled to realize it had radiated from Tom, himself.

"You aren't Lord of anything, Riddle," Malfoy spat, rising from the chair at last. "You are the son of a whore and a muggle – nothing more!" Abraxas stalked forward, his entourage following with wands extended, ready to protect their new master. Riddle was stunned. He grasped his wand tighter. "I, on the other hand, descend from royalty. When my father dies, I will be a true Lord." Malfoy stopped before Tom, his ice blue eyes wild and dangerous. He was unhinged, and the kind of power he now had in his grasp scared Tom. Madmen were unpredictable. They would do anything without fear, too crazed to understand and weigh the consequences of their actions.

He wanted to take a step back, but showing weakness now would surely result in disaster. Tom held his ground.

"I am Lord Saxalamoy," Malfoy nearly purred out, his own wand emitting sparks in its master's excited grasp. "My name will be feared for generations to come."

Tom resisted the urge to snort at the ridiculous name. Malfoy didn't have an original bone in his body. Voldemort had been made using the letters of his name and it was obvious that Abraxas had copied the idea. Saxalamoy, he thought with a mental snort. It sounded too ridiculous to fear.

"You tread on dangerous ground, _Saxalamoy,_" Tom said with more courage than he felt. "You will never succeed. You don't have the brains or the power," he goaded. Deftly, he reflected the curse shot his way by Yaxley. Malfoy held up his hand to stave off further attacks from the group of teenagers surrounding him.

"Powerful words for a fool outnumbered ten to one," Abraxas replied, turning his back on Tom and waltzing back to the seat. If not for the circle of followers, Tom would have blasted the presumptuous bastard on the spot. He held his wand and tongue in check. They knew about Hermione, and as crazy as Malfoy was, Tom knew they wouldn't hesitate to use her against him. "Silence suits you," Malfoy remarked gleefully. Tom bit his tongue, tasting the coppery tang when sharp teeth pierced flesh. "I have no doubt that my plans will succeed – plans that were once yours. I admit, however, that my cause would be greatly aided by your addition to my followers, despite your dirty blood."

"No," Tom snapped out, wanting nothing to do with this man and the group of traitors he had once called his own. It unnerved him to think that his entire mindset had changed in such a short time and he knew it was because of Hermione. Her light and grace warmed his life and made him realize that power and dominance wasn't everything, and it was dangerous in the wrong hands. Hands like Malfoy's.

"That wasn't a request, Tom," Malfoy said, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. "If you do not join me, I will kill your precious mudblood. Stand by my side now, and I might allow her to live."

Tom closed his eyes and sighed heavily. Damn Malfoy. As much as he'd prayed that the evil git would leave Hermione out of this, he knew it was inevitable.

"Make your choice, Tom. Her or us. Glory and power, or love and weakness. Life or death." The words were spoken softly, which only served to punctuate the brevity of the situation. Tom's heart felt heavy and he wanted nothing more than to unleash the power boiling within and kill every last bastard in this room. Special torture reserved for Malfoy.

_'You are better than that, Tom,' _Hermione's voice sounded in his conscious, staying his wand. He fought against the words, but no matter how much he wanted to obliterate this room and everyone in it, he couldn't bring himself to destroy his soul and the man Hermione had helped him become.

Tom's shoulders slumped in defeat as he dropped to his knees, wand clattering to the floor.

Malfoy grinned.

* * *

**AN: **Damn that Malfoy. He is such an evil bastard. Leave me some love! 


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Disclaimer: **Nothing is mine.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **I've received a few complaints over my characterization of Tom – especially with the remorse chapter and the last chapter. The remorse chapter I have to admit was a hiccup. I was eager to please after abandoning this story for nearly a year, and I lost sight of a few things. However, last chapter's characterization was intentional. I thought most readers would have realized by now that I have this nasty habit of writing teeth-grinding cliffhangers and then resolving those cliffhangers in absolutely the last way anyone expected. I actually thought I was becoming predictable. And I'd hoped, despite my remorse hiccup, that my readers would have more faith in my writing than to assume I'd completely Mary Sued Riddle. I haven't, dear readers. Please believe me in that. This is why I've chose to post this chapter so quickly – to reassure you. Had my style been as predictable as I thought it was, this chapter wouldn't have been posted for at least another day. I do appreciate all the feedback – don't get me wrong. It's nice to know where my readers stand so that I can explain or rectify situations. I am striving to make an excellent story, but I'm not perfect. Merlin knows I, of all people, am _not _perfect. For example: I ramble WAY too much. End of ramble.

* * *

_'She makes you weak,'_ a traitorous voice sounded in his head as he peeked up at Malfoy and his goons through heavily lidded eyes. _'You always knew that love was a weakness. Look at you know! Cowering before a __**Malfoy**__, of all people.' _

I am not cowering, I am biding my time, he thought to himself with an inner scowl. Tom couldn't forget that voice, though. The words kept echoing through his head as he watched Abraxas revel in his success at bringing Voldemort to his knees.

_'You have the power to obliterate every last person in this room with one sweep of your wand, yet you hesitate. Why?'_ the voice sounded again, piercing the darkness of his mind. He felt his anger growing and his fingers itched to retrieve the wand laying at his side. It was too soon. He bit his tongue, once again tasting coppery blood. _'It's her. It's the girl. She's done this to you. Malfoy was right about that, and you know it.'_

Tom's stomach twisted at the words. The dinner he'd just finished fought to come up, be he squashed the feeling, clenching his fists and grinding his teeth to stave off the wave of nausea.

_'Do you remember the rush you felt when Myrtle was killed? The power that roared through your body? Knowing that you had the power to decide another's fate? You can have that again,'_ it taunted, infesting the edges of his mind. He wanted to tear at his hair, rip the thoughts away, but any move would put Malfoy and the rest of the Death Eaters on their guard once again. He fought to stay still. _'Forget Hermione. Forget this weakness. Pick up your wand. Harness your power. __**Kill the traitors.**__'_

They are not all traitors, he told himself, despite the fury clawing at his brain. They are blind followers, seeking to gain glory off the power of another. They will follow whoever has the most power without question. With Malfoy out of the picture, they will follow me again.

_'Every single one of them knew what they were doing when they went along with Malfoy's little rebellion,'_ the voice countered, nearly flooding his mind completely now. The rage that grew in the pit of his stomach was eager to be expended, and Tom was finding it difficult to control. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on his brow, glistening in the dim light of the small room. _'You could still use them to your purpose, that is true. But they deserve to be punished for their disloyalty. Punish the traitors, Tom. Pick up your wand. Do it. DO IT!'_

I'm sorry Hermione, he thought, but even as his wand flew in to his hand, the voice rang out gleefully in his mind, _'No you're not.'_

The power that surged through his body the instant cold flesh wrapped around warm yew nearly blasted him backward. He steadied himself, and then slowly rose to his feet. Nobody seemed to have noticed his movements. Fools, he thought with a scowl. His wand was the first thing they should have taken, and a body bind should have followed to insure he didn't get away before they were done with him. A mistake he would make sure they never repeated in his service.

A feral look crossed his face.

_'Let the fun begin.'_

* * *

"Well, I'm still here, so Abraxas can't be dead," Draco said hours later as he and Hermione sat in the Room of Requirement. Hermione had her head buried in a book, a reassuring sight to the younger Malfoy despite the haunted look on her face. "If nothing else, Riddle's at least left him able to procreate," he tried for humor this time. Hermione raised her head from her book and scowled at Draco, who sighed at his failed attempt.

"How can you be so cavalier about your existence, Malfoy?" Hermione snapped, slamming the book shut and setting it on the table that suddenly appeared on the side of her chair. Draco forced himself not to squirm under the penetrating gaze she leveled on him. It didn't work. He looked away and sighed.

"I am a cowered with a powerful name, Hermione," Draco began, holding his hand up to stave off her objections. "Even during the war. I hid for _hours _before I joined the fray. One of the wounded carried back a report that my mother had been killed by her own husband, and I saw red. I vowed revenge and without a second thought I was on that field. I killed my own father, Hermione. I was little better than he, but there is no one to hold me accountable. If the fates decide to even the score by erasing my existence, who am I to complain?"

"Malfoy," Hermione murmured, shaking her head. "That is a load of hippogriff dung." Her words stunned the boy sitting across from her. "Yes, you were a coward with a powerful name, but somehow, despite having a monster for a father and husband, you and your mother saw the light, so to speak. Standing up against Lucius was courageous, Draco, even if he was your father. Some times it takes more courage to stand up against the ones you love than it does to stand up against an enemy," she finished, her tone softer.

"But my mother fought and died, while I hid and lived. It doesn't seem fair," Draco whined in protest. Hermione wanted to smack him upside the head. He sounded like a ferret when he whined and it grated on her nerves.

"Your mother's sacrifice gave you the courage to rid the world of that monster, and you want to repay her by throwing your hands up in the air and declaring to whatever gods are listening that you give up?" Hermione shook her head, barely veiled disgust clouding her face. Draco blanched at her harsh words. He was about to reply when the weirdest sensation took his breath away. He stumbled to his feet, looking all around for whatever had caused it.

"What the hell?" he murmured in confusion. Hermione turned toward him at his words, eyes growing large. A rush of wind whipped through the room, nearly knocking him off his feet. When it rushed from the opposite side and he realized that Hermione wasn't feeling it at all, he realized that the wind wasn't in the room. It was in him.

"No!" she screeched, rushing toward him with hands extended. She made to grab him, but her hand slipped right through. He looked at her in shock, then down at himself. He was transparent.

"No! I was kidding! I want to live!" Draco cried out, fear gripping his throat and making his words sound strangled. Electricity ripped through his body this time, making him stagger.

Hermione watched as Draco blinked in and out, as if she were watching a television with particularly horrid reception. Tears coursed down her cheeks at the realization that she was about to lose the last person connecting her to that world.

And then he was there – all solid, six feet of him. He stared at his renewed flesh with surprise, poking and prodding flesh to make sure it was actually there and not a figment of his quickly fading mind.

When Hermione threw her arms around him this time, they didn't go through. Both teens sobbed in relief.

"Abraxas," Malfoy breathed out, voice ragged. "He's close, but he's not gone yet."

Hermione pulled away, worry creasing her forehead.

"How do you know?" she asked, confused. Draco shook his head in wonder.

"I saw it. I don't know how, or why, but I saw him," he answered, a pained look crossing his face. "He's bleeding to death."

The color drained from Hermione's face.

"We have to find him," Draco said, his words suddenly tumbling out in a rush. "We have to help him. He may be a smarmy, evil git, but if he dies, I'm gone." He whipped out his wand and charged toward the door, which swung open without a word from the room's occupants. Hermione hurried after Draco, her own wand at the ready.

"Do you know where he is?" Hermione asked anxiously, scanning the dark halls for any thing or any one that might stop them. Thankfully, the corridors were devoid of life. She sorely missed Harry's cloak and the map in that moment.

"Not exactly," Draco replied, his own voice hushed as he flung out a hand and stopped Hermione before she could rush around the corner ahead of him. He held his fingers to his lips, signaling silence, and pulled her in to a shadowed alcove behind him.

Slughorn ambled by, a box of cream puffs clutched greedily in his pudgy hands. The second he was out of sight, Hermione snapped out of her shocked daze. How foolish they had been to run about the castle past curfew without disillusioning themselves? She quickly performed the spell on both teens even as they hurried from the alcove and rushed toward the dungeons.

"How do you know where to go?" Hermione asked as they descended the stairs in to almost pitch-blackness. "Lumos," she whispered under her breath, the tip of her wand lighting the way.

"I can feel him," Draco replied. As if to prove this point, Draco staggered in to the wall, form going hazy once again. "We have to hurry," he choked out when his solid form did not return. He looked like a ghost. Hermione bit her bottom lip to stave off tears and broke in to a run, following Draco's rapidly fading form through the maze of dungeons. They came to a stop before a long stretch of damp wall. "There," Draco whispered, pointing at the spot of wall they were standing before. He walked through, startling Hermione.

She stared at the wall, mind running over every spell she knew that would grant her entrance to the room. It was easy for Draco to enter, sure. If a ghost could float through walls, then a semi-transparent teenager could. She growled under her breath and raised her wand.

Draco's arm shot out through the wall and grasped at her and Hermione was surprised to realize that he could touch her. It felt odd and tingly, but whatever will he was exerting to reach her was working. He pulled her through the wall. Hermione blinked in surprise when she passed through without a problem.

"It's an illusion," Draco muttered in explanation when Hermione started to wonder if he'd somehow made her go transparent with his touch. "There's no door there," he added, tugging her over to the body splayed on the floor. Hermione spared a curious glance at the wall that wasn't a wall before rushing to Abraxas' side.

A large pool of blood pooled beneath his still form, making Hermione lurch. Nausea roiled in her stomach and she had to bite her tongue to keep her dinner from rising. It had been a long time since she'd seen death.

"You have to staunch the flow, Hermione," Draco whispered urgently. She looked up at the young teen who was beginning to flicker again. "I can't feel him anymore. Hurry!"

Hermione shook the fog from her mind and instantly set to work. She was no mediwitch, but she had become acquainted with quite a few healing spells through the many books she'd read during their hunt for Voldemort's Horcruxes.

Placing her free hand on the gaping wound in Malfoy's chest in an effort to put pressure on the area and stave off the flow, she ticked off spells in her head until she was confident she'd remembered one that would stop the last of the arrogant teen's blood from leaving his already deathly pale body. Wand to wound, she incanted, closing her eyes and focusing on her center of power. She could feel the light of her magical core flow up from her core, through her arm and down her wand until it pooled on the wound, neatly stitching it closed. It seemed like ages before the gash was finally closed, the flow of blood cut off.

Hermione sat back on her legs and pulled her bloodied hand away, her eyes glued to Abraxas' chest. If she concentrated, she could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He was alive, if only just. What she had one would only do so much. He needed a blood-replenishing potion immediately, or her work would have been for naught.

"Get him to the hospital wing," Draco urged, snapping Hermione's attention to him. She noticed, in relief, that he was no longer flickering, and though still transparent, his form was growing more solid. "I'll find my way back to the Room of Requirement."

Hermione nodded, climbing to her feet and levitating the still form of the elder Malfoy. Draco couldn't join her, she knew, because his state of semi-transparency would raise far too many questions. She sighed heavily, rubbing at the pain in her forehead with her free hand.

Through the maze, up the stairs, weaving in and out of the halls, Hermione was surprised when she encountered no one. Luck was on her side this night. She had the niggling feeling that it wouldn't be a good idea for anyone to know that it was she who had found the Slytherin. At the door to the hospital wing caution urged her to gently set down the body and fall back in to the shadows. Pointing her wand at the door, she muttered a spell that would alert the Matron within that someone was at the door. She slunk further back in to the alcove, replenishing the disillusionment charm that had begun to wear off.

The door to the ward swung open, revealing a stout woman looking highly frazzled. Her gaze swept through the hall before they finally landed on the still form at her feet. She let out a cry of surprise and dropped to her knees to examine the teen. Hermione watched all of this with bated breath.

In seconds Abraxas was in the air again, the Matron hurrying him in to the hospital wing with a quickness that belayed her size. When the doors slammed close behind them, Hermione hurried from her hiding spot. She had to get to the Room of Requirement. Hopefully, Draco was there.

Emotion clogged her throat as she hurried through the castle.

* * *

Tom watched Hermione run through the halls with Malfoy levitated before her. He was shocked that she'd found the traitorous fool, and even more disturbed that she was hell-bent on saving the bastard. Anger surged, distorting his features.

_'She saves enemies. For what reason?' _the voice echoed in wonder through his mind. Tom ground his teeth.

"Does she need one?" he asked himself aloud, his voice a bare whisper in the empty corridors.

_'This penchant for mercy will be her downfall,'_ the voice suggested. Tom's head twitched at the thought. _'She's too weak. Her heart rules her life, not her head. She will never accept what you stand for. She will chose love over power. She will chose __**them **__over you.' _The them the voiced referred to Tom automatically knew to be muggles and muggleborns. He blanched.

"She could have both," Tom murmured defiantly, watching as Hermione set down Abraxas before the Hospital Wing and then hid in the shadows. He wondered at this. Did she not want recognition for saving the boy? Why did she not jump at the chance for her moment of glory? No, Hermione wasn't like that. She never had been, and he was a fool to think that she ever would be. He smiled at her tenderly despite himself.

_'She will never love what you are,' _the voice taunted, making his head twitch again. He clenched his fist around his wand and resisted the urge to march over to the young woman and claim her as his own. _'And you can never love her. It makes you weak. Do you want another like Malfoy to challenge you? Don't fall in to her trap. Mercy may be her downfall, but she will be yours.'_

Tom grit his teeth and watched with longing as Hermione hurried away, Abraxas safely in the Matron's healing hands. The bastard had deserved to die. To rot away in that hollow space, never known and never found. The world would have assumed he'd disappeared. With no body, Tom would never have been implicated.

But somehow, Hermione had found him. That created a problem. Questions would arise and fingers would be pointed. Hermione and Draco knew that he'd gone after Malfoy, and if Abraxas ever regained consciousness, he would be able to pinpoint his attacker. Hermione was probably returning to Draco now, to tell him what she had found. A brief flare of some emotion churned his stomach at the two of them together. He forced it away, a grimace on his face. Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he focused on the group of followers that had once again sworn allegiance to Lord Voldemort.

He fingered the mark on his forearm. At least his followers would say nothing. His mark ensured that.

A malicious grin spread across his face at the memory of the evening's activities. They had screamed as the mark carved in to flesh. He had felt their pain in the casting, and reveled in it. To know that he controlled them – could summon at will and make sure they felt his displeasure. The power it gave him was intoxicating.

He swayed on the spot, drunk on the memory.

No, they would not say a word. Lord Voldemort had commanded it so, and so it would be.

He would have to deal with Malfoy another way. Before he awoke.

* * *

Hermione stopped before the doors to the Room of Requirement and forced herself to take a calming breath. She walked thrice before it, the need to see Draco fierce in her mind. Doors slowly formed then swung inward.

"Hermione!" Draco's voice called out as she hurried in to the room. Her face broke out in to a wide grin when she saw that he had returned to normal. She flung herself in to his arms.

"You're alive!" she shouted out in relief.

"I don't feel dear old grandfather anymore, but I'm still here, so I must be!" Draco replied, just as relieved. "Which means he must be as well," he added on a more serious note. Hermione worried her bottom lip and fell on to the couch that suddenly appeared.

"What does this mean?" she murmured, more to herself than to Draco, who lowered himself beside her. He quirked an eyebrow in question. "What could Malfoy possibly have done to make Tom do this to him?" she questioned aloud, inwardly blanching at the thought.

"Something big," Draco replied, leaning back. He knew instinctively that no other person could have left Malfoy to die there tonight, and knowing that Riddle had gone after the other Slytherin only solidified his assumptions. The look on Hermione's face told him she believed this as well, though it pained her to do so.

She looked as if her heart was breaking. He pulled her in to a hug.

"I don't know if I can do this, Draco," she said, sighing heavily. "There are no books that can tell me how to react to this situation. I've searched the library and I haven't come across one book about teaching future Dark Lords how to love and convincing them to give up their plans for world domination." The look on her face as she said this was so serious that Draco couldn't help but laugh. Hermione glowered at him.

"If I come across a book like that, I'll let you know," Draco replied cheekily, earning a swat to the head for his trouble. The couple was silent for a long while, staring at the blank wall across the room as they mulled over the night's events.

"I thought he had changed," Hermione murmured sadly, breaking the silence. Draco squeezed her shoulder. "Earlier today he was saying that he could love me, and now he's torturing people and leaving them to die? I don't get it."

"Hermione," Draco began carefully, unsure of how to broach the subject. He fidgeted in his seat. "Maybe it's time to face the fact that Riddle can't be saved. Or doesn't want to be."

Hermione shook her head emphatically, refusing to consider the possibility. She had seen the good inside him, even if no one else had. Everyone had the capacity to love. No one was born evil. She knew it.

"No, Draco," she said, pulling out of his grasp and standing, a fierce look of determination lighting her eyes with fire.

Draco looked up at her, proud of her determination even if the odds were against her. He smiled sadly, hoping, for her sake, that Tom Riddle was worth fighting for. Hermione stared off in to some memory, her face full of the passion and emotion that fed her love of knowledge and made her the Gryffindor she was at heart.

"Tom Riddle will be saved. Whether he likes it or not."

* * *

**AN: **So, Tom definitely still has a few issues… I'd hate to get on his bad side. Hopefully this appeased some of you. I'm quite happy with the turnout myself, thank you very much. 


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**

* * *

**

Disclaimer:

I don't even own a bed, never mind the rights to the Potterverse.

**Rating: **T, for violence, language, and sexual situations.

**Summary:** In the heat of battle, Hermione is flung back in time. Struggling to adjust, she runs in to the last person she ever wanted to see, the one person she seeks to destroy – the man she will ultimately learn to love. AU after HBP. HG/TR.

**Author's Note: **Right, so. I abandoned this fic over a year ago because I wrote myself in to a huge, gaping plot hole and I had no idea how to write myself out of it. I still have no idea how to write myself out of it, for that matter. But, I've been in the mood to write lately, so I've decided to give it a shot even though I'm blindly searching in the dark. Besides, this fic is still garnering support and I figure I owe it to everyone to at least finish the blasted thing. Fair warning – it will probably be absolute crap. Listening to Boa's "Obsessed" as I write this. It fits… So, here it goes.

* * *

Hermione hadn't the faintest clue what to do. Lost in thought, the bustle of the Great Hall at breakfast went unnoticed by the young woman, her own bowl of oatmeal cooling, untouched before her. It had been nearly two weeks since the incident with Malfoy and Draco's near disappearance and not only had Tom refused to talk to her, but in the rare instances he was forced to, he was downright contemptuous.

Slowly, day by day, Hermione felt her resolve weakening. Perhaps Draco was right. Perhaps Riddle couldn't be saved.

Sighing heavily, Hermione dropped her head in to her folded arms, not caring that her chocolate curls flopped in to the abandoned bowl of oatmeal, coating them in the sticky, white substance.

"Malfoy's gone home," a voice murmured from her side, causing Hermione's head to snap up, shock written across her tired features. Draco, back to the table, leaned on his elbows against the edge, gazing at Hermione with concern in his eyes.

"What? How?" she demanded, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Although Abraxas had slowly been healing, he'd still been bedridden in the Hospital wing, the matron too afraid to let him move for fear he'd reopen his wounds and reverse the healing process. He had been cursed with very unpredictable dark magic that the mediwitch had never seen before, and therefore her healing regimen was a practice in trial and error.

"His parents removed him last night with the aid of private healers. They refuse to allow him back at Hogwarts. He'll be privately tutored for the remainder of his seventh year," Draco explained, relaying the information he had charmed out of the easily flustered matron of Hogwart's hospital wing.

Hermione was disturbed by this information, yet slightly relieved. At least with Abraxas out of harms way, there would be no further threat to Draco's existence. The two visitors from the future had, after all, had to prevent Riddle from finishing the job more than once in the past two weeks, which irked the future dark lord considerably – especially since he seemed to have no idea who was foiling his plans.

"So… are we happy or sad?" Draco asked tentatively, noticing the conflicting emotions flashing through his friend's eyes. Hermione blinked, seemingly pondering the question.

"Relieved, more like," she answered finally, nodding. After a moment, she frowned. "Did this happen the first time around? Abraxas finishing his schooling at home?" she asked Draco, who would know more about his grandfather's past than she.

"No. He had a picture of himself with a few 'friends' at graduation hanging on the wall of the study at Malfoy manor, so he obviously finished here last time," Draco replied, eyes going glassy as his mind drifted along a sea of memories. Both teens were silent for a while as they contemplated this break from history, wondering what impacts it would have on the future.

"Snap out of it, you two. You're going to be late for class," Lucretia said as she passed by them, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she walked. Hermione shot her a thankful smile.

"Riddle won't be happy at this development," Draco muttered darkly, shooting the boy in question a wary look as he pushed from the table, slinging his own bag over his shoulder. Hermione followed suit, grabbing a muffin for good measure, since she hadn't touched any of her oatmeal. Draco snorted as she moved, her hair flying about and flinging bits of the gruelly food everywhere. Withdrawing his wand, he aimed a cleaning spell at her hair, since it was obvious Hermione either didn't know that her hair was coated in her breakfast, or didn't remember.

"No," Hermione whispered, looking up at the young man in question as he stood from the Slytherin table. He must have sensed that someone was watching him for his head snapped up, catching her eyes. She shuddered at the pure hatred that pulsed from his eyes and looked away. "He won't."

* * *

He was not happy.

Understatement of the century. He was _livid._

Tom paced his dorm, thankful that as Head Boy he was granted his own, for he desperately required privacy at the moment. He doubted that his classmates would have been thrilled about having their dorm room obliterated, after all.

With a sweep of his wand, the broken and blasted items scattered about the decent sized room slowly began to repair and knit themselves back together. He had destroyed and repaired everything at least a half dozen times since he found out that Malfoy had escaped his clutches and returned to the safety of Malfoy Manor.

_Hermione's behind this and you know it._ The voice spoke, voice dripping with acidity. Tom clenched his hands, nearly breaking his wand in two in the process. He set it on the bedside table before he could do actual damage and sat heavily on the edge of his bed.

"I don't know that," he muttered out loud. The inner voice scoffed, making him scowl.

_She's been protecting Malfoy ever since she found him after you left the traitor for dead, and you know it. _

Riddle grunted in response, flopping back on to the mattress and staring blankly at the ceiling. Despite his behavior toward the infuriating Ravenclaw, he thought about her constantly. Memories of what they had – what they _almost_ had – haunted him daily.

Despite the fact that he knew, with utmost certainty, that she could – would – ruin everything, Tom _missed_ her.

But she would never understand and accept him as he was now – how he had to be in order to keep control over his subordinates. Without that control, someone else might make a move for power, like Abraxas had.

Tom shook his head and let out a weary sigh.

He wanted Hermione but he wanted power too, and he knew he could never have both.

As if the object of his thoughts knew that his mind dwelled on her, a school owl flew through the open window, dropping a familiar shade of parchment on his stomach. Tom sat up and picked up the missive, staring at it warily.

Finally, with some reservation and a small hint of trepidation, Tom unrolled the scroll.

_Riddle,_

_What in Merlin's name is your problem? What the hell has been in your head these past two weeks? What happened to you? I want the old Tom back. The Tom that I came to know, respect, and daresay, almost bloody LOVE. _

_Get your bloody act together, man! You're better than this bitter, vengeful, power-crazed __thing__ you seem to have become. I'm sick of it! _

_You're better than this. I know you are. I've seen it. You have a great capacity for love. I know it's in there somewhere, it's just hiding. Let it come out. Please, Tom._

_Come back to me._

_Hermione_

* * *

Halloween came and went and Hermione hadn't heard back from Tom. She saw him around the castle and in classes, but he ignored her, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. He couldn't even bring himself to meet her gaze, making Hermione wonder what was going on in that head of his.

Had her letter gotten through to him at all? Was this why he was suddenly quiet, and pensieve. From both her and Draco's observations, he didn't even talk to his 'friends' anymore. It was like he was on autopilot, moving from day to day with a monotony that startled everyone. Ever the professors seemed to notice Tom's change in behavior. She had seen more than one approach him cautiously and inquire in to his wellbeing. Tom would merely sneer and insist he was fine and ask to be left alone. After three weeks of this behavior, everyone had seemed to give up on him.

Finally, one day in late November, Tom appeared to snap out of whatever funk he was in. Back to his old, charming, slightly smarmy self. Once again, his followers shadowed behind him like lost puppies and the professors fawned and praised.

Hermione, for her part, was exhausted. She didn't sleep at night, instead tossing and turning, her mind a whirl of thoughts and ideas and plans and everything else in-between. She fretted over what to do about Tom. She worried about the future and the ramifications of her meddling in the past. She wondered about the friends she had left behind – left for dead. She worried for Draco, who closed himself off more and more as the days separated him farther and farther from Angelique.

When it all came down to it, Hermione felt more alone than she ever had in her entire life.

"You look horrible, lass," Cormac declared one day at the beginning of December as Hermione fell heavily on to a bar stool at the Three Broomsticks. Hermione shot him a withering glare before dropping her head to her hands and yawning widely. Cormac eyed her with concern. "Did that Riddle boy do something to ye?" he muttered angrily, slapping the rag he'd been cleaning with down on the bar and eying the patrons of his establishment, searching out the boy in question.

Sighing heavily, Hermione shook her head.

"I got myself in to this mess, Cormac," she replied softly, swiping at tears that pooled in her eyes with a shaking hand. "I guess I'm just going to have to get myself out of it," she finished on a sad note, her eyes a million miles away as she stared at the wall behind the elderly man.

"Well, the bloke was never good enough for my Hermione anyway," Cormac said, his voice gruff with irritation. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Cormac, please," she pleaded, sighing wearily. "Can we just drop the subject?"

"Aye, lass," Cormac agreed, nodding. He watched the young woman as her shoulders dropped, her eyes once again swimming with tears, and felt instant alarm. Circling the bar, he hurried over and quickly drew the girl in to his arms. Within seconds, Hermione was quietly sobbing, her tears soaking his white shirt.

"I don't know what to do anymore!" she wailed, her words muffled by Cormac's wiry frame. Her body shook with the force of her cries. "I just… I just want to go home!"

* * *

"_I just… I just want to go home!" _The words rang in Tom's ears as he stood stock still in the middle of the pub, eyes glued to the one woman he had sworn to forget. Yaxely and McNair stood behind him, waiting for their leader to make the first move. Worry tinged their eyes and they glanced at one another, both shrugging in confusion.

A gnawing sensation tore at his stomach, making Tom wince.

_This is what we wanted. If she hates you, she'll finally leave you alone._

Tom shook the thought from his head, hands shaking with the force of the tidal wave of emotion that suddenly spilled over him.

"She was ready to give you everything, you know," a voice murmured from some place nearby. Tom whipped his head around, eyes coming to settle on the brunette Slytherin that was quickly turning in to the bane of his existence. Draco, for his part, merely gazed blankly back at the future dark lord, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against a support beam.

Tom blinked slowly, taking the other man's words in.

"Want us to get rid of him?" Yaxely murmured from behind Tom.

"Leave me," Tom replied instead, the commanding tone in his voice wavering slightly as he kept his eyes glued on Draco. Yaxely blinked in surprise, but when Riddle suddenly shot him a withering glare, he complied, grabbing McNair's arm and pulling him out of the Three Broomsticks.

"Personally, I don't think you deserve her," Draco continued once Tom's lackeys were gone.

Tom quirked an eyebrow as he took a step closer to the other Slytherin.

"What makes you think I even want her?" he finally shot back, regaining a bit of his composure as he tried to block out the sound of Hermione crying nearby. Draco raised his eyebrow, mirroring Tom's expression.

"Oh, I don't think," he waved off airily, his gaze landing on Hermione for a brief moment before returning to Riddle. "I know you want her." He pushed off the beam and took a step toward the other boy. "The problem is, with the way you've been acting for the past couple of months, you definitely aren't going to get her."

"Which relieves you greatly, I'm sure," Tom drawled sarcastically, peering at the woman in question out of the corner of his eye just in time to see the old barman lead her in to a back room, rubbing soothing circles on her back.

"On the contrary," Draco replied, shocking Riddle in to stunned silence. Smirking, Draco slowly circled the Slytherin prince, eying him from head to toe, making the other boy feel exposed in more ways than one. "For some reason beyond my comprehension, Hermione saw something in you," he finally murmured, a hint of disgust in his voice. "Something worth having… worth saving."

"I refuse to be a pity case," Tom bit out through clenched teeth at this.

"Oh trust me. The last thing Hermione feels for you is pity," Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"Then why, pray tell, does she feel the need to _save_ me," came the acerbic, drawling reply. Draco merely shrugged in response.

"Because you need to be saved, whether you like it or not," he said matter-of-factly. Tom blinked, unsure of how to reply to something like that. Draco leaned in close, his voice a mere whisper when he finally spoke. "Let her save you, Tom."

Before Riddle could even register the soft-spoken words, Draco was gone, the door swinging closed behind his retreating back.

"Tom?" a soft, hesitant voice called from behind him. Tom spun on his heels, startled for the second time that day. Hermione stood there, wringing her hands and gazing at him almost shyly.

"Buchanan," he muttered, tilting his head in acknowledgement, his own gaze cold, with an underlying hesitancy. Shoulders stiff, mind reeling with everything Valois had just said to him, Tom couldn't seem to focus on the distraught woman standing before him. Noticing this, Hermione frowned, eyes pooling with tears again.

"Never mind," she muttered dejectedly, pushing past him and hurrying out of the pub. Tom watched her go with conflicting emotions. He stood there, ignoring the curious gazes of the other patrons, trying to get control of himself, and it was a long while before he finally moved, the trip to Hogsmeade forgotten as he hurried back to the castle on the hill.

* * *

"I give up," Hermione declared later that night, sitting in the chintz chair before Dumbledore's desk, eyes averted. "I can't save that bloody fool, nor do I want to anymore," she added with a tone of finality.

"I see," Dumbledore replied softly, gazing serenely at the young woman over the top of his glasses. Hermione looked up at caught his eyes, feeling somewhat guilty at the slight reproach she saw in his azure gaze.

"I want to go home," she announced, squirming in her seat and looking away again. "Have you found a way to get me back to my own time?"

"Indeed, I have," Dumbledore murmured, nodding his head once. Hermione instantly straightened, a look of relief and excitement flooding her features.

"Tell me! I'll do whatever it takes!" she exclaimed, nearly bouncing in her seat. Dumbledore studied her for a long moment, steepling his fingers and tapping his chin thoughtfully. After what seemed like an eternity, he smiled at the young time-traveler.

"No."

* * *

**AN: **Yay for cliffhangers. So, I admit the chapter isn't as long as its predecessors, but I thought that was a fitting ending, so I left it there. Hope it wasn't too crappy. Lemme know what you think.


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